Warnings: dom!San, sub!reader, voyeourism, use of sex toys, bondage, dirty talk, BDSM, exhibitionism, rough sex.
Summary: She was surprised by how fast her life went from the perfect fairytale to the destructive mess it had turned into. Dealing with a cheater ex boyfriend, having to move out to a different place because the house she lived in belonged to that man she once dreamed of spending the rest of her life with, while continuously being underappreciated at work... It was as if life was telling her to stop dreaming big, to go back to her small town, Bibury, and help her parents run the small farm her family had owned for decades.
At least until she received a call from her friend.
A sudden vacancy as an assistant showed up on one of her friend's system, having her being encouraged to take that big step and apply for it. She had no hopes for it. Mainly because she didn't have any experience on the field, and she didn't comply with most of the requirements that were added on the offer -and which most of them sounded ridiculous and exaggerated for the position, making her wonder who was the freak who needed so many guidelines in order to hire someone to pick up the phone and schedule events.
Although that hotel she'd be working on was much more than anything she could've come up with.
Choi San wasn't someone easy to deal with. After his previous assistant presented his resignation letter on his desk, he felt forced to start the whole selection process again -after merely two months.
Sure that he was being way too strict, enough to find that anyone who applied for the position wasn't enough, he asked one of his friends to be in charge of the interviews and the selection of the most adequate candidate.
Little did he know Wooyoung would hire the imperfectly perfect candidate for him, sure that she'd help him in many ways other than just in dealing with the responsibilities of his position.
A new challenge will come their way as soon as she steps inside the hotel.
Y/n will have to learn how to mold onto him and deal with all his small habits and requirements, and San will find himself trying to open up and let out all those same things that turned him into the person he was.
The more she digs in Kalla and all of its secrets and exciting corners, the deeper she'll dive into San's heart and soul... Although, maybe, she won't be able to take it.
Kalla opens its doors to you, sharing the vast amount of filthy and erotic plans it offers, and that you can join with a partner... Or maybe just by yourself.
Hope you enjoy your stay.
Chapter duration: 19 minutes
The boardroom was tense, a sharp contrast to its usual opulence. The investors sat around the table, their expressions ranging from annoyed to outright furious.
—This is unacceptable, San —one of them started, slamming a printed version of the reviews on the table—. We've worked hard to rebuild the hotel's reputation after the last incident, and now this? If this spirals, we're risking everything.
—I understand —San said, his voice steady but firm—. We're already working on addressing the guest's complaints. I'll personally ensure the staff clarifies all policies moving forward.
—That's not enough —another investor snapped—. The damage is already done. If this goes viral...
Before the argument could escalate, the door opened, and Y/n stepped in.
—I'm sorry to interrupt —she apologized with a thin voice, carefully closing the door behind her.
San's eyes briefly widened in surprise, but he said nothing as she walked to the side of the room, carrying a folder of notes she had prepared.
The few months she had been working there, she kept herself from showing up in those meetings, knowing how stiff and serious everyone in that group were. San had actually tried to keep her out of it himself, saving her up from an uncomfortable time.
But after seeing San pacing his office earlier, clearly distressed about a new problem, she thought that maybe the situation was way too serious to just shrug it off. His sleeves were rolled up, his tie slightly loosened /a rare sight for someone as meticulously composed as him. Y/n had watched quietly from the doorway, unnoticed as he muttered under his breath, rehearsing possible responses. Though he never asked for help, she could sense his unease. It was in the way he avoided looking at his reflection in the window, as though his own doubt might stare back at him. That was when she decided she couldn't stay on the sidelines.
Y/n listened intently, her eyes darting between the investors and San as they volleyed accusations and defense.
She didn't know much about big companies, but his investors were always on his neck, and that made her understand why he was so strict at the beginning with her.
—This isn't just about policies —one man said, his voice tight with irritation—. It's about perception. If guests think we're cutting corners...
—We're not cutting corners —San interjected sharply—. This was an isolated incident, and we're already handling it.
—And what about the fallout? —another snapped.
Misuk, sitting opposite to San, was getting ready to speak, her tongue licking her lips before she parted them, ready to come up with an amount of money to cover it all up. Although she could only breathe in, because another voice spoke before she could.
—If I may —her voice was calm but firm enough to cut through the noise—. I think there's a way to address both the incident and the perception issue without turning this into a larger scandal —she began, drawing the room's attention.
The investors turned their gazes toward the back of the room, toward her, skeptical to what she was going to say, while San leaned back slightly in his chair, his curiosity piqued.
—Go on —while he intertwined his fingers in front of his face, there was a proud look in his eyes and a barely seen smirk that gave her the courage she needed to go on.
—I looked into the guest's complaint —Y/n opened her folder and handed out a few pages she'd printed earlier— and the policies they're citing. While the reviews are damaging, this isn't a systemic issue: it's a miscommunication. The guest didn't fully read the terms, and the staff didn't clarify. We can fix this by tightening how we communicate with guests about themed nights.
—And how exactly do we fix the public perception? —one of the investors asked, raising an eyebrow.
—By owning the mistake and showing transparency —Y/n said confidently—. Release a statement apologizing for the miscommunication and outlining the steps we're taking to improve. This shows accountability and rebuilds trust. Additionally, I suggest offering the guest a VIP experience to turn them into an advocate instead of a critic —she took a deep breath, slowly heading the table next to San—. If we try to hide it, after the big scandal we managed to get over with, the public will think there's something deeper to it, and it'll backfire. Instead, if we show transparency and work showing all of our moves, the public will thank it. Not to mention that, revealing to the public that the guest wasn't entirely right, will probably make them back off on their accusations.
The room was silent for a moment before one investor leaned back, nodding slowly.
—It's not a bad idea.
—It's a quite smart solution —another investor chimed in—. We could even get benefitted from this issue.
San watched Y/n as she navigated the discussion, her composure and confidence disarming even the most skeptical board members. A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips, he wasn't sure if he was more impressed or relieved.
As the investors filed out, some murmuring their tentative approval, San lingered by the wide table, still waiting for the moment he could be alone with Y/n. And it finally happened, the door closed behind one of the investors, a friendly smile as a goodbye.
When she was straightening from the bow, she turned to San, finding his face serious and intimidating.
Did she actually... mess it up?
—I didn't expect you to step in —he said, walking dangerously toward her.
—Were you expecting me to stay on the side? —her eyebrow raised.
And then it was when his facade broke and he smiled, his gaze softening before his arm attempted to wrap around her waist.
—Not something you could be successful at —he confessed—. You'd steal the attention either way.
Her smile was shy, while her body squirmed under his flirting and touch, but she went back to the original conversation quickly.
—You looked stressed —Y/n explained herself, shrugging—. I thought that you could use the backup.
He studied her for a moment, his gaze unreadable. Then, almost as an afterthought, he said:
—Thank you.
—You don't have to thank me —she replied, her voice light—. Just don't let them bully you next time, I won't always be around...
San chuckled under his breath, the sound rare but genuine. For the first time in days, he felt like the storm was manageable, with her standing beside him.
—You handled them better than I ever could.
—If I can handle you, I can handle anyone I want.
For a moment, he didn't answer, his eyes lingering on her face. There was something grounding about her presence, something that made him feel less like the world was on his shoulders.
She couldn't react, when she realized what was happening, she was already sitting at the edge of the table, with San parting her legs to be able to place himself between them.
—So you can handle anyone? —he purred against her lips.
—Look at yourself in the mirror and you'll find the first victim —her head was tilted to the side in a funny way.
—That's so right.
He pulled her close, their bodies pressed together as they kissed, their lips molding together like two pieces of a puzzle. Y/n could feel his muscles relax as she moved her hands over his wide back, her caresses made all of his hairs raise for her.
Y/n let out a soft moan as San's tongue explored her mouth, their bodies pressed close together. She could feel the heat radiating off of him, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer, desperate to burn with him.
San's hands began to roam, tracing patterns on Y/n's back and shoulders. He reached up to tangle his fingers in her hair, pulling her head back to expose her neck, already picturing the invisible trail he was going to draw. He trailed kisses down her neck, nipping at the sensitive skin.
—You drive me so insane that it seems like we both forgot who commands here.
—Are you going to show me? —his hands sliding down to cup Y/n's breasts.
He squeezed gently, teasing her nipples through the fabric of her shirt.
Y/n gasped, arching her back as San's fingers worked their magic. She reached down to undo the buttons of her shirt, revealing her lacy bra, looking for some more direct touch. San's eyes darkened as he took in the sight of her, and he leaned in to take one of her nipples into his mouth, although he stopped before doing it, only allowing her to feel his warm breath over the fabric of her bra.
—Oh, yes —San assured her, while her fingers threaded through his hair, not aware of the disappointment he was preparing her for.
—You'll get out of here and back to the office, and you'll try to cover how desperate you're for me to fuck you right here —he explained, while his fingers worked to button up her shirt, topping her frustration by pinching her chin.
—I deserve a reward —she whined—. I saved your ass, minimum...
—Want to turn your reward into a punishment tonight? —he warned her— Be patient and good, and do as you were told.
A huff escaped her lips when she forced herself down the table, annoyed at how he played her, before he called her out again.
—With a smile —he continued.
While looking up to him, she forced a smile, curving her lips up while keeping the same straight look in her eyes. She kept up that act, and even turned to him while she opened the door, the smile only turning genuine once she closed it behind her.
As she walked away, San found himself smiling again, the weight on his chest feeling just a little bit lighter.
Y/n stepped out of the conference room, her breath steady despite the tension that had just unfolded inside. She clutched her folder to her chest to hide the evident aftermath of San's touch, walking briskly down the hall to clear her mind.
She barely noticed Misuk leaning casually against the wall until the other woman straightened and stepped into her path.
—Impressive performance in there —Misuk said, her voice silky but laced with something veiled.
Her red-painted lips curled into a faint smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.
—Thank you —Y/n replied politely, though she instinctively tightened her grip on the folder.
She had no desire to linger in this conversation, but Misuk did, that was why she got on her way when Y/n almost managed to walk past her.
—You've got a sharp mind —Misuk continued, falling into step beside her—. San seems to value that. Not many people can command a room like that, especially in front of people who clearly weren't expecting it.
—It's about focusing on solutions —Y/n glanced at her briefly—, not problems. That's what matters.
—True —Misuk hummed, her gaze trailing downward—, but not everyone in that room was focused on the presentation, were they?
Y/n stopped for a second, turning to face Misuk fully.
—What are you trying to say?
—Oh, nothing —Misuk said innocently, but her hand drifted up, fingers brushing the delicate eternity collar resting around Y/n's neck.
The gesture was subtle, but it sent a jolt of awareness through Y/n. Misuk's eyes lingered on the collar, then flicked back to hers, her smile sharpening.
—It's a lovely piece —Misuk remarked, her tone light but pointed—. Very unique. And it suits you... though I wonder if you know just how much it says.
—Thank you —Y/n's heartbeat quickened, but she kept her expression neutral—. Thank you. It was a gift.
—I figured as much —Misuk replied, her words slow and deliberate—. San has a way of picking things that leave an impression, doesn't he?
Before Y/n could respond, Misuk took a step back, her smile softening into something deceptively friendly.
—Well, I'll leave you to it. I'm sure you've got plenty to do.
As she turned and walked away, Y/n stood frozen for a moment, her mind racing. Misuk's words weren't outright confrontational, but their implications were impossible to ignore.
When she returned to her desk, her fingers brushed the collar absentmindedly. For the first time, it felt heavier than it should, a symbol of something far too noticeable. She made a mental note to talk to San later, not just about Misuk's comments but the consequences that would be linked to them.
The aftermath of their latest session hung in the air like a comforting embrace. Y/n sat on San's couch, her body wrapped in a soft throw blanket as she sipped water from the glass he'd handed her. His usually intense demeanor had softened, his eyes lingering on her in a way that felt more tender than usual.
—You comfortable? —he asked, his voice quiet yet full of care.
Y/n smiled, her cheeks slightly flushed from the intimacy they'd just shared.
—Yeah.
San's lips curved into a rare, gentle smile. He was squatting in front of her, his fingers carefully moving over the places the handcuffs were around. She had chosen, she never said the safe word, but for some reason he was still extra careful about her well-being.
—I'm okay —she chuckled, moving her hands away from his fingers.
She cupped his cheeks, puckering his lips before she kissed him.
She was actually okay. Their session was quite normal, compared to other times. He tied up her ankles and her wrists, all of them linked by a firm leather strap, allowing him to move her however he pleased. When she came up it, she never thought it'd turn out as good as it was.
—Are you hungry? —he asked, breaking the kiss only to please her.
—Uh-hum —she nodded—. Just a bit.
He looked at her for a moment, looking contemplative, before he gave a soft peck on the tip of her nose to get up from the floor, then suddenly clapped his hands together.
—Stay here. I've got something planned.
She arched a brow.
—What are you up to?
—You'll see —he said, giving her a mysterious smirk before hid half of his body behind the counter.
A few minutes passed, and Y/n could hear the distinct clattering of pots and pans. The sounds were followed by an occasional curse muttered under San's breath. Curious, she leaned forward, peeking toward the kitchen. His eyebrows were knitted together, more than focused, he seemed to let frustration reach a new peak.
—I have it all under control —San called out, his voice playful but teasing.
—I'm just making sure you don't need any help —Y/n teased back, laughing softly.
—Trust me. You'll love this —he said, though there was a hint of uncertainty in his tone.
Time ticked by, and the scent of something... unusual wafted into the living room. She wrinkled her nose slightly but kept her mouth shut, knowing how much effort he must have been putting into whatever he was doing.
Finally, he showed up in front of her again, holding a plate in each hand. His black t-shirt with several stains of a white substance, while his pants had the mark of his palm as he dragged it to clean himself.
—Dinner is ready.
Y/n's eyes widened as she looked at the plates. They were filled with what appeared to be... pasta? Sort of. The noodles were oddly clumped together, and the sauce was a peculiar shade of orange with chunks of something she couldn't quite identify.
—It's... creative —she said diplomatically, trying to suppress her laughter.
San set the plates down on the table, pulling a chair out for her.
—I followed a recipe —he said proudly, though his expression faltered when he noticed her hesitation—. I know you love Italian food, so I decided to make something for you.
Ever since she told him she missed the days her parents would take her to her favorite Italian restaurant back home after every competition, San had been piling up all possible Italian recipes he could find. Never finding a chance to cook it until that night.
Slowly, she walked toward the table, dragging the chair back without taking her eyes off the food.
She took a deep breath, grabbed her fork, and twirled a bit of the sticky noodles around it. Taking a cautious bite, she chewed slowly, her face twisting involuntarily. The taste was a mix of burnt garlic and... was that sugar?
—San —she said, swallowing hard—, did you follow the whole recipe or just parts of it?
He frowned, sitting beside her and taking a bite himself. While her hand still held the fork, he twirled some of the noodles and took a bite. His face scrunched immediately, and he groaned, putting the fork down, while his fingers were still on Y/n's hands.
—Okay, so maybe I misread a few things.
—More like missing... It seems like you added things that shouldn't be there.
They locked eyes, and in that shared moment of culinary failure, the tension broke. Y/n burst out laughing, covering her mouth with her hand, while San rubbed the back of his neck, chuckling despite himself.
—Well —he said, standing up and grabbing the plates—, cooking is definitely not our thing.
—We could live from ramen and snacks, but you're too healthy to even consider it —she narrowed her eyes.
—You'll thank my advice in the long rong.
Y/n chuckled as she wiped her mouth, finally managing to stop laughing after their disastrous dinner attempt. San leaned back against his chair, arms crossed, a rare sheepish expression on his face.
—I admit defeat —he said with a sigh—. I thought cooking was easier.
—Well, at least you tried. And I appreciate what you did, even if it ended poorly —Y/n teased, standing up and stretching—. But I'm not letting you starve tonight.
San raised an eyebrow.
—Got a plan?
—There's a great Italian place a few blocks away —she suggested, brushing her hands down her sides to smooth her outfit—. Let's go there.
The warm, rustic atmosphere of the restaurant wrapped around them as they settled into a cozy corner booth. The scent of fresh bread and rich tomato sauce filled the air, and the dim lighting gave the space an intimate feel.
San ordered a glass of wine, while Y/n opted for some water. The waiter took their orders, a classic carbonara for her and a seafood risotto for him, and left them alone -although they both would end up sharing it.
—So —San began, his voice calm and low—, do I get points for redeeming myself?
Y/n laughed softly.
—I suggested the place —she called him out—. I'll give you a solid seven for effort, and for being pretty in front of me.
He tilted his head, pretending to be offended.
—Only seven?
—Fine. Seven and a half —she teased, swirling her straw in her water.
They fell into an easy rhythm of conversation, sharing lighthearted stories about their respective days. But Y/n's laughter was more reserved than usual, her mind drifting back to her earlier encounter with Misuk.
Y/n couldn't shake the image of Misuk's hand brushing against her eternity collar, the subtle smirk that suggested she knew more than she let on. Her fingers instantly brushed against the necklace the same way she did, wondering how long it'd take until that encounter affected those same carefree moments between San and her.
—Y/n? —his voice broke through her thoughts, and she blinked, realizing she'd been staring at her untouched water.
—Sorry —she said quickly, shaking her head—. Just... thinking.
San narrowed his eyes slightly, leaning forward.
—Thinking about what?
She hesitated for a moment, debating whether to bring it up. Misuk's words echoed in her mind.
—I think Misuk knows there's something between us —she finally confessed—. She knows you gave me the collar.
—She doesn't know —he corrected her—. She just guessed and is right, which I guess is the same thing —he shrugged, giving a sip to his drink—. Who cares if she knows?
—Should I remind you she's one of the most important investors? And who also happens to be obsessed with you? —she urged him to realize.
—I don't care, and you shouldn't either —he tried to calm her down, his hand reaching for hers—. Because nothing will make me stop thinking I'm the luckiest just by being in your orbit.
That sentence alone made Y/n smile shyly, her feet kicking under the table while she held back his hand.
Their food arrived, and the mood lifted slightly as they dove into their meals. San took a bite of his carbonara, humming in approval.
—Better than my pasta experiment?
—Infinitely better —Y/n said with a grin, savoring her risotto.
As the meal continued, San's occasional glances told her he noticed the change in her attitude, with her quickly going back to the Y/n who'd always run around with a smile on her face.
They finished their meal in relative silence, but it wasn't awkward. There was something grounding about his presence, a reminder that, despite everything swirling around them, they had this moment of peace. And for now, that was enough.
The cool night air wrapped around Y/n and San as they strolled through the bustling streets of Seoul. The atmosphere was lively, with neon lights flickering and the hum of chatter filling the air. Despite the chaos around them, everything felt calm between them. San's hand was warm and steady in hers, a comforting contrast to the chill of the evening.
They didn't speak much, but the silence wasn't uncomfortable. Y/n enjoyed the rare calm of being with San outside their usual high-stress environments.
As they turned a corner, the smell of sweet, fried dough wafted toward them. Y/n's eyes lit up as she spotted a hotteok stand, the vendor expertly flipping the golden pancakes on a sizzling griddle.
—Stay here. I'll get us some —San said, his voice soft but thoughtful.
Y/n smiled as he let go of her hand and walked toward the stand, exchanging a few words with the vendor. Even if she had tried to stop him, it probably would've given her the same result. She watched him, noticing how he seemed different that night, more relaxed, even playful in his subtle way.
Just as she was getting lost in the moment, her phone buzzed. She pulled it out of her pocket, expecting something from the girls or Seonghwa, but what she saw on the screen made her stomach twist.
Her thumb hovered over the notification before she opened it.
"You want to protect San? Then meet me tomorrow. We need to talk. If you ignore this, his reputation will be ruined again. 8 PM. Don't be late.
A secret between you and me."
Her heart raced. The text felt like ice in her veins, chilling her from the inside out. She glanced up at San, who was now paying for the hotteok, oblivious to the mess her head was turning into.
—Y/n?
She quickly locked her phone, plastering on a smile as San walked back over, holding the hotteok wrapped in paper. He handed her one, his eyes soft with concern.
—You okay?
—Yeah —she said quickly, forcing a laugh—. Rosie got in trouble with someone again, nothing new.
San raised an eyebrow but didn't press further.
—Here, try this. It's fresh.
She took a bite, the sweet syrup filling her mouth, but the taste barely registered. Her mind was spinning with the message. Who could it be? What did they know? And most importantly, how did they plan to use it against San?
San wiped a bit of syrup off the corner of her mouth with his thumb, his touch gentle.
—You seem tense again. Are you sure you're okay?
—I'm fine, really —she nodded, swallowing hard—. Just tired, I guess.
—Alright —he gave her a skeptical look but didn't push—. But if something's bothering you, you'll tell me?
—Of course —she hesitated, then nodded with a smile.
They continued their walk, but Y/n's mind was no longer on the peaceful night or the sweet treat in her hand. Instead, it was on the meeting she couldn't avoid, and the secret she had to protect at all costs.
Taglist: @brown88
Read Chapter 36 from the story Kalla || Choi San by Lucythor_xoxx (Lucy A.) with 1 reads. fanfic, ateezchoisan, kpopfan...
Warnings: dom!San, sub!reader, explicit language, mention of drug and guns, violence, rough sex.
Summary: San, a notorious and feared mafia boss, has always lived in the shadows of power and violence. When an ambush leaves him wounded and on the run, he finds refuge in an empty event hall. Inside, Y/n, a rising star in the world of event planning, is nursing her own wounds -a career on the line after a confrontation with a powerful client. The last thing she expects is for her night to take a dark turn when San stumbles into her life, bloodied and dangerous.
Despite the fear and uncertainty, Y/n can't turn away. She helps him clean up, binding more than just his wounds in the process. What begins as an intense, chance encounter spirals into a dangerous obsession. San, used to being the hunter, becomes fixated on the one woman who dared to help him, even in his darkest moment. Meanwhile, Y/n, caught in the mystery of that powerful man, finds herself tracking his every move, unable to shake the dangerous allure of his world.
Neither knows that their fascination with each other is mutual. In a city teeming with danger, power, and deceit, their secret obsessions will pull them deeper into a deadly game -one where love, power, and obsession intertwine, and nothing is as it seems.
Chapter duration: 11 minutes
Y/n woke to the soft hum of morning light bleeding through the curtains. The world felt muted -the kind of silence that exists right before a storm breaks. Her body was still heavy with exhaustion, her throat dry, her head full of the remnants of everything that had happened: the fear, the fighting, the way San's voice had cracked when he finally said he was sorry.
For a moment, she kept her eyes closed. The sheets were cool against her bare legs, smelling faintly of his cologne, of something dark and familiar. The weight of a hand on her waist told her he was still there -except, when she turned her head, she found him sitting upright beside her instead.
San was awake.
He was leaning forward on the edge of the bed, elbows braced on his knees, shirtless, the early light cutting along the planes of his shoulders. His hair was a mess, dark strands falling over his face as he stared at something on the floor. Maybe nothing at all.
He hadn't noticed she was awake yet.
For the first time in days, Y/n didn't feel the immediate rush of anger or fear at the sight of him. Just... quiet. A hollow sort of peace. The same peace she could only dream of a few weeks back.
Her voice came out soft, roughened by sleep.
—You're staring at ghosts again.
San flinched almost imperceptibly before glancing over his shoulder. When he saw her awake, his expression softened, all edges fading at once.
—Couldn't sleep —he admitted.
His voice was low, still husky from hours of silence. Y/n pushed herself up slowly, the sheet slipping down her arm.
—You used to say only people with a guilty conscience can't sleep.
He huffed a breath, something between a laugh and a sigh.
—Then I should've been an insomniac years ago.
The corner of her mouth lifted, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. She watched him for a long time: the way his fingers fidgeted against his knee, the subtle stiffness in his posture. San looked like a man who'd been holding his breath since before dawn.
—You prayed again —she said quietly—, didn't you?
That made him finally look at her fully. There was a faint flicker in his gaze -not embarrassment, not pride either. Just honesty.
—Every night since you collapsed.
She blinked, surprise breaking through the haze of fatigue.
—You don't even believe in God —she almost scoffed.
—I didn't —he corrected, his mouth twitching faintly—. But you kept saying He listens. I figured, if He was listening to you, maybe He'd make an exception for me. You’re here, you’re safe, so it doesn't seem like you were entirely wrong. And I guess... Well, it kinda feels good to let your thoughts out and just voice the fears you don't want to become real.
Her heart squeezed in her chest. She didn't know whether to smile or cry.
—You're serious.
—I was and I am desperate —he said simply—. And apparently, that's the closest thing to faith I've ever had.
The air between them stilled. Y/n reached out, brushing her fingers over his shoulder. His skin was warm under her touch, the muscle tense, like he hadn't truly relaxed even while lying next to her.
—San —she murmured—, you can't keep trying to save me like this.
He turned to her, eyes dark and sharp again -not with anger, but with something fierce, protective, impossible to untangle.
—Then tell me how to stop wanting to.
She opened her mouth, but no words came. Because how do you tell someone like him, someone who loves as if it's survival, that sometimes love itself can be dangerous?
So she didn't. She leaned in instead, pressing her lips to his shoulder, the smallest gesture of forgiveness she could give. He closed his eyes and let out a slow, shaking breath. When she finally pulled back, her voice was steadier.
—We're a team. Being away and ignorant to what happens to the other doesn't work, so we should be honest. Real honest about everything that happens between us and around us —she suggested, her chin rested on his shoulder—. And, to set a start, what happens now?
San hesitated. That single heartbeat of silence told her the answer wasn't simple. He stood, reaching for the shirt draped over the back of a chair. As he slipped it on, buttoning it halfway, she noticed the tension crawling back into his movements -the mask returning.
—Now —he said—, we fix what's left before it buries us.
—That sounds like something you'd say before disappearing again —she muttered, pulling the sheet tighter around her chest.
He shot her a look -not harsh, but weary.
—If I was going anywhere, I wouldn't still be here when you woke up. And I wouldn't have brought you here with me. I wouldn't have come back.
Her lips parted, but she said nothing. He was right. For the first time, he hadn't run when things got difficult.
—What's happening with Hongjoong? —she asked after a pause.
San turned away, walking toward the small table where his gun and phone lay side by side.
—He's not the problem anymore.
She frowned.
—You mean Jongho, then?
He shook his head.
—I mean there's someone else moving pieces we don't see. Mila's death wasn't about you or me, it was a message.
The weight of those words settled like lead between them.
—A message from who?
He picked up the gun, checked the chamber, and set it back down again.
—That's what I'm going to find out.
—By yourself?
His gaze snapped back to her.
—No —he said quietly—. Not anymore. We made a deal, remember? A real team.
Something in his tone disarmed her, that rare sincerity, the one he only ever used when the walls came down.
Y/n nodded slowly.
—Then tell me what I can do.
For a moment, he said nothing. Then he walked back toward the bed and crouched in front of her. His hands rested on the edge of the mattress, close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating off them, but he didn't touch her yet.
—Stay alive —he said finally—. That's all I need you to do.
Her heart thudded painfully.
—That's not a partnership, San. That's you standing ahead of me to try and hide me from danger.
He gave a half-smile -tired, resigned.
—Maybe.
Their eyes held for a long time -hers full of defiance, his full of fear he couldn't name. She realized then that the man in front of her wasn't invincible. He was breaking in quiet ways, the kind that didn't make noise until they shattered completely.
She reached out, resting her palm against his cheek. She wasn’t going to fight his command, because, unlike other times, she knew this time it meant he wouldn’t try to hide the reality from her.
—Then you'd better stay alive too —she whispered.
He leaned into her touch, just slightly, and for a moment, they were still again, suspended between the aftermath and the storm that was inevitably coming. San straightened after a while, brushing his thumb along her jaw as if to anchor himself.
—I'll have Yunho and Wooyoung come by later. You should rest. You seem to be recovering, but it doesn't mean you're completely fine —he sighed—. I'll keep you updated when I come back.
She caught his wrist before he could pull away.
—And you?
—I've got something to take care of —he said vaguely, already slipping back into that familiar armor.
She held his gaze, searching for the lie -but this time, she didn't find one. Whatever he was hiding wasn't about betrayal. It was about protection. Again.
When he finally left the room, Y/n sat there for a long while, staring at the space he'd occupied beside her. The light had shifted, spilling gold across the bed, across the sheets that still held his warmth.
Her hand drifted to the cross at her neck -the one he'd fixed when some of the buds broke days ago as she prayed. She lifted it to her lips, closing her eyes.
—Please —she whispered to the silence—. Don't let him lose himself trying to save me.
In another room, San paused by the half-open door to the small chapel he'd built for her. He could hear her voice in the silence -soft, steady, praying again, asking for things that would only be good for the both of them. He stepped in, letting her words fill the air he managed to avoid ever since she collapsed, like light breaking through the dark.
And for a fleeting second, he believed that maybe, just maybe, they could still be saved.
San arrived at the warehouse just after noon, though the sky outside had gone dark with storm clouds, turning the city into a shadowed maze. The humid air clung to his skin, seeping into his bones like something warning him to turn back. He didn't.
Inside, the warehouse hummed with a kind of frantic order -San's men moving in stiff, sharp movements, voices hushed, the tension thick enough to taste. Wooyoung was the first to notice him, straightening instantly from where he'd been going over surveillance photos.
—Boss —he said, voice tight.
Yunho was behind him, arms crossed, eyes darker than usual. Mingi hovered near the table, shifting anxiously, tapping one foot like he was ready to explode. Yeosang stood apart from the rest, leaning against a concrete beam with his arms folded, his gaze heavy, unreadable.
San didn't speak at first. He just took in the room, took in his men -the ones who'd stayed, the ones who still looked at him with something like trust.
—Report —he said finally.
Yunho stepped forward.
—Mila's death is being treated as a homicide. No fingerprints, no forced entry. Professional —he sighed—. No offence to Y/n, but I'm surprised the police can even be thinking of her over something so calculated and clean.
—Not the slightest evidence —Wooyoung added firmly—. Her security cameras were wiped too. Clean.
San nodded once, jaw tight.
—And Y/n?
—Safe —Wooyoung replied—. For now. Our source in the police station knows where she is, just so things don't get worse and she gets accused of trying to escape in the middle of the investigation. So we're fine.
It wasn't enough. Nothing felt like enough.
Yeosang was the one who finally broke the fragile quiet.
—You know this isn't random —he murmured—. Whoever did this wanted chaos. And you walked straight into it.
San didn't snap back. Didn't correct him. Because it was true.
—I need everything we know —he said instead—. Everyone Mila contacted, everyone who knew about Prague, everyone who touched anything connected to Y...
A soft, deliberate clap echoed behind them.
San's head snapped up.
Every one of his men went still, hands hovering near weapons. Footsteps approached from the far end of the warehouse -slow, unhurried, like the owner had all the time in the world and no fear of entering the lion's den.
Yunho muttered:
—This better be a fucking joke...
But San already knew.
The silhouette that appeared between the metal crates belonged to someone who shouldn't have been there. Someone who was loyal until he wasn't. Someone San had once trusted with his life.
Jongho.
His hair was shorter than before, his expression unreadable, his posture neither threatening nor apologetic. Just... present.
Mingi swore under his breath. Wooyoung's hand tightened around his gun. San didn't move.
—What the hell are you doing here? —Wooyoung hissed.
Jongho didn't answer him.
His eyes were locked on San. And then, two more shadows slipped into view behind him. One tall, wearing black from head to toe, his face impassive except for the faint glint in his eyes.
Seonghwa.
And then, a man stepped forward with a quiet authority that shifted the entire room's atmosphere in an instant. His hair was slicked back, his sharp jaw framed by a faint smile -not mocking, not friendly, just knowing.
Hongjoong.
Every muscle in San's body went rigid.
—Relax —Hongjoong said, lifting his hands slightly—. If we wanted to ambush you, it wouldn't be in your own warehouse. I'm offended you think I'd choose such an ugly location.
Mingi sputtered.
—Why the fu...
—Enough —San cut him off. His voice was a blade—. What do you want?
Hongjoong's smile softened a fraction. Not kind. Just calculated.
—To give you what you've been chasing in circles.
Seonghwa moved to the side, letting Jongho step fully into the center of the room. The young man stopped a few feet from San, tension radiating off him like static.
Jongho spoke first.
—I never betrayed you.
Wooyoung scoffed.
—Yeah? You ran, you vanished, you fed Hongjoong intel...
—I fed him intel to keep us alive —Jongho snapped back, his voice sharper, angrier than they'd ever heard—. If I hadn't intervened, we all would be dead or in jail. Including Y/n.
The warehouse fell silent.
San's pulse thudded once, hard. Hongjoong stepped forward, clearly enjoying the sudden shift of power.
—You're smart, San —he said smoothly—. But even smart men get blindsided. You weren't supposed to be the target this time. Neither was she.
San's jaw clenched.
—Then who?
Hongjoong exchanged a look with Seonghwa, a silent conversation passing between them. Seonghwa approached the table, dropping a thick folder onto it. The impact echoed. He opened it just enough for San to glimpse the first photograph.
A man, a woman, a charred warehouse floor, a symbol burned into concrete. The same symbol that had been on the letter was left in San's Prague hotel. A symbol San hadn't seen in years.
Hongjoong watched his expression shift -shock, recognition, rage.
—Yes —Hongjoong murmured—. Him.
San's voice was low. Deadly.
—He's supposed to be dead.
—He isn't —Seonghwa replied—. And he's been planning this longer than you realize.
Jongho nodded.
—He infiltrated your circle months ago. Nothing better than a brokenhearted person to get the information you want, without having to give anything in return —he scoffed.
San felt something cold lodge in his chest when his mind immediately went to Mila. The room seemed to tilt around him. Hongjoong continued, stepping closer until he and San stood only a few feet apart.
—We didn't come here to start a war —he said softly—. We came here to prevent one.
And then, with a small, chilling smile:
—Because the man you and I both thought we buried? He's back. And he wants everything you love turned into ash —Hongjoong sighed again—. I'll be honest, if it had only stained you, I wouldn't have gotten involved, but seems like they're trying to move against me as well. And I won't tolerate that. If we want them all gone, we have to team up again.
The warehouse went deathly still.
Taglist: @a-tiny-thing , @brown88 , @justineasian
Read Chapter 32 from the story Until You're Mine || Choi San by Lucythor_xoxx (Lucy A.) with 1 reads. san, ateezsmut...
Warnings: Explicit language, mention of death and suicide, demonology, violence, rough sex
Summary: Y/n thought her life couldn't get worse after losing her parents in a tragic accident. Years after, she's aware of everyone moving forward, while she's in the same place, isolated and alone. She struggles to find meaning in a world that seems indifferent to her grief. Desperate for comfort, to feel the deep connection she had been missing, she starts the manifestation, expecting an inoffensive entity to walk with her that rough path. What she doesn't know is that she awoke the mysterious entity tied to an old necklace around her neck.
Jungkook, a mysterious and seductive figure, appears in her life, offering the company she craves. But as his presence grows stronger, so does the unsettling sense that there's more to him -and the necklace- than meets the eye, unfolding all the reasons that took him to that place.
Now, as the past bleeds into the present, Y/n must fight with her growing feelings for the demon who seems familiar yet dangerous. Jungkook is determined to reclaim his power, but in doing so, he may doom Y/n once again. Bound by fate, the two are locked in a dangerous mix of love, redemption, and the looming threat of destruction.
Will they break the curse that has haunted them both, or will history repeat itself with devastating consequences?
Chapter duration: 13 minutes
The morning light filtered softly through the curtains, painting the apartment in a pale, forgiving gold. Dust motes drifted lazily through the air, caught in the sunbeams as if time itself had slowed.
Jungkook stirred awake to the faint, uneven rhythm of footsteps -quiet, careful, but steady-, the kind of steps that let him know Y/n was trying her best not to wake him up.
For a moment, he forgot the reality of the situation, comforted by how everything seemed to be the same. The feel of the couch under him, the soft weight of the blanket, the faint scent of lavender detergent... it all pressed against him like an old memory wearing a new face.
Then came the smell.
Eggs sizzling faintly, toast burning just a little around the edges, the distinct sweetness of jam -the same one she always bought, the one he used to steal spoonfuls of before she could even spread it on bread.
He froze. The air left his lungs in a shallow exhale.
The smell wasn't just breakfast. It was home.
His chest tightened, sharp and unexpected, as images began to surface -her messy hair tied up, her back turned as she scolded him for sneaking up behind her. The sound of her laughter when he burned the toasts, the way she'd lean against the counter with that crooked smile. He could still feel the heat of her breath against his neck, the domestic warmth that used to fill the silence between them.
He sat up slowly, dragging a hand through his hair. The blanket slipped down to the floor. For a moment, he just sat there, staring at the wall, grounding himself against the pull of memory that wasn't supposed to exist anymore.
When he finally stood, he moved quietly toward the kitchen, his steps soft on the floorboards.
She was there, just as his memories had painted her -hair slightly tangled from sleep, a loose shirt hanging off one shoulder, lips pressed in concentration as she flipped a piece of toast on the pan. The morning light kissed her skin, catching the curve of her jaw.
Y/n turned at the sound of his movement and offered a small smile.
—Hey. I didn't wake you, did I?
He shook his head, forcing a faint smile. If she only knew his biggest pleasure was being awake by her every single morning.
—No, I was already up.
—Good —she said softly, turning back to the pan—. I made breakfast. I figured you'd be hungry.
Jungkook swallowed the knot in his throat. "You have no idea" he thought.
The smell wrapped around him again as she moved -warm and human and painfully familiar. It was like nothing had changed, nothing had disappeared.
—Thanks —he murmured, stepping closer—. You didn't have to.
—You saved me last night —she shrugged—. ‘Least I can do is make sure you don't starve.
The words hit him harder than they should have. She said them so casually, unaware of the deeper truth tangled beneath them.
He watched her plate the food, careful and quiet. Her movements were the same as before, the little details she didn't realize she repeated: wiping her hands on the same corner of the towel, humming softly under her breath, pushing her hair back with the back of her wrist when it fell into her face. Every detail was a knife pressed against his ribs.
—Here —she said, setting a plate on the small table—. It's not much.
He sat across from her, the smell of the food filling the space between them. They ate in silence at first. The clink of forks against plates, the hum of the fridge, the faint whisper of the city outside. It was almost peaceful -if not for the ache sitting low in Jungkook's chest, the part of him screaming that this was wrong. That she should be sitting closer, that he should be making her laugh by now, that he shouldn't have to pretend he didn't know what her favorite part of the toast was.
But he stayed quiet.
Y/n broke the silence first.
—So... what class did you say we had together?
He blinked, looking up.
—Hmm?
She smiled faintly, shy but curious.
—You said last night that we were in the same class, right? I was trying to remember, but I don't think I've seen you around much.
He let out a soft chuckle.
—Yeah, I don't go often. I'm... not exactly a model student.
She smirked lightly.
—Figured.
Her teasing tone almost made him smile for real. Almost.
They ate a little more in silence. Then, she tilted her head slightly, studying him.
—Where do you live, anyway? You said you didn't have a place last night.
Jungkook hesitated. The truth: "I don't belong here, I was dead, I came back to earn you again" flickered at the edge of his tongue. He pushed it down.
—I'm looking for a place, the situation with my roommate is unbearable —he said instead—. ‘Haven't had much luck yet. Rent's insane, and I don't have much saved up.
Y/n nodded, sympathy flashing across her expression.
—Yeah, it's rough. Most landlords around here want your whole life story before they let you sign a lease.
—Guess I'll have to come up with a good one —he said quietly, his tone lighter than he felt.
Her eyes softened.
—Well, I hope you find something soon. It's not easy, starting over like that.
"You have no idea" he thought, trying to hold back the ironic laugh. He looked down at his plate, his voice dropping almost to a whisper.
—Yeah. Starting over.
The silence that followed was heavy but not uncomfortable. It was fragile, the kind of quiet where every word felt like a thread that could snap if pulled too hard.
She took a sip of her coffee and leaned back slightly, glancing toward the window.
—You can stay here until you figure something out, you know. If you need to.
The words almost didn't register. He looked up, stunned.
—I mean, just until you get back on your feet —she added quickly, cheeks warming—. I've got the space, and you don't exactly look like you've got anywhere else to go. I know what it's like to be in the wrong place, and it's hard. The couch isn't that comfortable, but...
He laughed softly, but it broke halfway through.
—You really shouldn't offer that so easily.
—I'm not —she said, her voice steady—. But you don't seem like a bad person. Besides... —she hesitated, eyes lowering to her coffee— it's nice not to be alone.
The words landed between them, raw and quiet. Jungkook swallowed hard.
—Then... thank you —he said, meaning it more deeply than she could know.
Y/n gave him a small smile, one that didn't quite reach her eyes.
—You're welcome.
The light shifted as a cloud passed by outside, soft shadows crawling across the table. Jungkook watched her as she looked away, the morning sun touching her hair, gilding her in a glow that felt both holy and untouchable.
He wanted to reach out, to touch her hand, to tell her he remembered every word, every night, every promise they never got to keep.
But he stayed still.
He couldn't afford to scare her off. Not now. Not when the clock had already started ticking down.
—Fifteen days —he whispered under his breath, barely loud enough to hear.
—What? —she asked, confused at his mumble.
—Nothing —he shook his head quickly—. Just... thinking.
—You're setting fifteen days as a limit?
—Something like that...
She nodded, offering a small smile before returning to her plate.
The silence returned, lighter this time, filled with the quiet hum of the world waking outside. And as he watched her -alive, unknowing, so achingly near- Jungkook realized that maybe the cruelest kind of punishment wasn't being taken from her. It was being given her back like this -a stranger at her table, reliving love she no longer remembered.
After they finished eating, the warmth of the small kitchen lingered -the smell of coffee, the low hum of the fridge, the soft tap of her spoon against the cup.
Y/n leaned back in her chair, drawing her knees up slightly beneath her oversized shirt, the morning sunlight outlining her in soft gold.
—You should probably go and grab some clothes later —she said casually—. From your apartment or wherever you were staying. You'll need more than that hoodie if you're gonna be here for a few days.
Jungkook blinked. The words hit harder than she intended.
—My apartment —he repeated under his breath, almost as if tasting the word for the first time.
She smiled, misreading his pause.
—Yeah. I can lend you a bag or something. Just so you don't have to come back and forth.
—I don't... —he swallowed, his throat dry.
—You don't...? —Y/n tilted her head, frowning slightly.
—I mean... —he tried to smile, but it didn't reach his eyes— I don't have any clothes. Well, not that I don't have any clothes, but I don't really want to go back to... that place —he lied.
The words hung between them, fragile and too honest.
—But then, you have nothing —her brows pulled together in confusion—. Like... You have nothing that it'd be important enough for you to go back there and pick it up?
"Everything I need is right here" he thought.
Jungkook's gaze dropped to his hands, fingers curling slightly.
—Something like that.
He could still feel the cold stone of the Vatraels' chamber under his knees, the echo of their voices warning him: "You'll have nothing. No power. No past. No future unless you earn it".
Nothing had ever felt truer.
—Hey —Y/n's voice softened.
He looked up. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table, eyes searching his.
—You can borrow some of my stuff for now. I've got shirts that could work. Hoodies. I mean, they'll be a bit small on you, but...
Her attempt at humor faltered when she saw the look in his eyes. That haunted flicker she couldn't name.
—Thanks —he said quietly—. You don't have to.
—I want to —she said simply.
Something in his chest gave way -a tiny crack through the wall he'd been holding up since waking in that alley. He nodded once, trying to breathe through the heaviness that followed.
—Okay.
Y/n smiled faintly, pushing her chair back.
—Good. Then it's settled. You can shower first if you want. The water pressure sucks, but it's warm.
She started to gather the plates, but Jungkook stood quickly.
—I'll do it.
She blinked, surprised.
—What?
—The dishes —he said, already reaching for the sink—. You cooked.
Her lips parted, but she didn't argue. Something about his quiet insistence felt unshakable -gentle but absolute. So she nodded and stepped back, watching as he rolled up his sleeves and began to wash each dish with methodical care, like the act itself meant something.
Maybe it did.
Maybe it was the only thing he could do to feel real again.
She turned away after a moment, biting back a small smile. For someone who claimed to have nothing, he carried himself like someone who'd already lost everything. And for reasons she couldn't explain, that thought tugged at something deep in her chest -something that felt like memory.
By the time the dishes were stacked and drying beside the sink, the kitchen had gone quiet again. The morning light had shifted higher, cutting sharp, bright lines across the floor.
Y/n leaned against the counter, watching him. His hands were still damp from the sink, sleeves rolled to the elbows. He looked a little out of place there -too careful, too deliberate- as if he were afraid he might break something just by existing.
When he finally turned around, wiping his hands on a towel, she smiled.
—So —she said—, how do you feel about going shopping?
He blinked.
—Shopping?
—Yeah —she shrugged lightly—. You said you don't have clothes. I'm guessing that hoodie's not gonna last forever, and I need to head to the mall anyway to grab a few things. We can find you something that actually fits.
Jungkook hesitated. His first instinct was to say no. To keep the distance. But then she smiled again -that small, offhand, her smile- and he felt something shift inside him, soft and devastating.
—Okay —he said quietly—. Yeah. Shopping.
When they got to the mall, it was already humming by the time they got there -the sound of chatter, laughs, footsteps, music bleeding from open store doors, neon signs glowed against polished tile floors. It felt too bright, too alive after the muted days he'd spent alone.
And it was the same one.
He knew it the moment they stepped inside. The scent of roasted coffee from the café by the entrance. The escalators hummed with the same mechanical sigh. The skylight above spilling daylight like a halo.
He'd been there before, with her.
He'd stood in this same corridor, awkward and unsure, while she laughed at him for holding a hanger upside down, for keeping that snob attitude when he thought he was better than humans. She'd tugged him by the wrist into a store, pressed shirts to his chest to see what color suited him, made him try on things just for the fun of it.
It had been the first time she made him feel human.
And now she walked ahead of him, weaving through racks with that same quiet curiosity -except she didn't look back this time, didn't tease him, didn't touch his wrist.
—Try this one —she said, holding up a flannel shirt against him—. This would look good with those jeans.
Her voice was soft, practical. Familiar in every note, yet completely wrong. He stared at the shirt for a long moment before taking it.
—You think so?
—I do —she smiled, stepping back to look at him properly—. I'm sure you'll make it look nice.
He swallowed.
—Right.
She tilted her head.
—Hey, are you okay?
He blinked, pulling himself back to the present.
—Yeah. Just... a lot of people.
It wasn't a lie. The noise pressed around him like water, but it wasn't what made it hard to breathe. It was the sight of her -standing under the same fluorescent lights, saying the same words, but with no trace of the memory they'd once built together.
Still, he followed her through the aisles.
She grabbed shirts, sweaters, jeans... She asked him his shoe size and guessed when he hesitated. She handed him things over the door of the fitting room like she used to -with that same easy rhythm, that same absentminded care.
And Jungkook... he let her.
He tried each piece, looked in the mirror, pretended to be the person she thought he was -someone new, someone harmless, someone who didn't know the weight of what she'd once said to him under that same skylight: "You look like you belong here now".
He didn't. Not anymore.
When he stepped out wearing a black sweater she'd picked, she nodded approvingly.
—See? That's perfect.
He looked down at himself, then up at her reflection in the mirror across the room. She was watching him -not with the soft affection she once had, but with quiet satisfaction, like she'd solved a puzzle.
He smiled faintly.
—You've got good taste.
—I know —she said, grinning—. Someone once told me I was good at this.
Something in his chest twisted at that -a sharp, aching pull that felt almost cruel.
—Yeah? —he asked softly—. Someone?
—Yeah —she said with a laugh—. A long time ago. I can't remember who, though.
The words nearly undid him.
He had to look away, gripping the edge of the fitting room door to steady himself. The memory hit too vividly -her voice, her laughter, her hand brushing his sleeve in this same store.
Back then, she'd looked at him like he was something she'd created, someone she chose.
Now, she didn't even know him.
They carried their bags down to the food court later, both a little tired but smiling. She insisted on buying lunch. He didn't argue.
Over steaming bowls of ramen, they talked about nothing -the weather, her classes, a film she wanted to see. He asked questions, listened to her voice, memorized the way she pushed her hair behind her ear when she spoke.
For her, it was just conversation.
For him, it was everything.
She laughed at something he said -a soft, unguarded sound that made time fold in on itself. He couldn't help it; he smiled too, even as his chest burned with the weight of it. He knew, deep down, that every second was a test. That every look, every word, was borrowed time ticking toward an end.
But sitting there across from her, watching her laugh over noodles and sunlight spilling through the glass above them -he couldn't bring himself to care.
For the first time since the necklace, Jungkook felt alive again.
And for the first time since losing him, Y/n felt something she couldn't name -a flicker of warmth, a pulse of recognition that shouldn't exist.
When they left the mall, she reached out instinctively to adjust the strap of his bag where it hung too loose on his shoulder. Her fingers brushed his chest -a small, thoughtless touch- but it made him stop walking for a heartbeat.
She didn't notice. She just smiled and said:
—Come on, let's go home.
And he followed her through the fading afternoon light, carrying the weight of the world in his quiet steps.
Warnings: dom!San, sub!reader, explicit language, mention of drug and guns, violence, rough sex.
Summary: San, a notorious and feared mafia boss, has always lived in the shadows of power and violence. When an ambush leaves him wounded and on the run, he finds refuge in an empty event hall. Inside, Y/n, a rising star in the world of event planning, is nursing her own wounds -a career on the line after a confrontation with a powerful client. The last thing she expects is for her night to take a dark turn when San stumbles into her life, bloodied and dangerous.
Despite the fear and uncertainty, Y/n can't turn away. She helps him clean up, binding more than just his wounds in the process. What begins as an intense, chance encounter spirals into a dangerous obsession. San, used to being the hunter, becomes fixated on the one woman who dared to help him, even in his darkest moment. Meanwhile, Y/n, caught in the mystery of that powerful man, finds herself tracking his every move, unable to shake the dangerous allure of his world.
Neither knows that their fascination with each other is mutual. In a city teeming with danger, power, and deceit, their secret obsessions will pull them deeper into a deadly game -one where love, power, and obsession intertwine, and nothing is as it seems.
Chapter duration: 21 minutes
The house had never known quiet like this.
Not the heavy kind that follows violence or arguments, but something softer, trembling, alive. A silence built from waiting.
San hadn't left her side the first night. Not once. He had dragged the armchair from the corner to sit by her bed, watching every shallow rise of her chest, every flicker of her eyelids. When she stirred, he thought she'd wake, but she never did.
The doctor's words repeated in his head like scripture: She'll recover if she rests. If she eats. If she drinks.
The amounts of ifs made him grow even more nervous, because it meant he held no control over what happened or how it'd develop.
When dawn broke, light spilling weakly through the blinds, he found himself back in that room again: the chapel.
He didn't plan it. His body simply went.
He knelt where she always did, the rug worn faintly where her knees had pressed into it. The faint scent of her perfume lingered in the fabric, like the ghost of her devotion.
He tried to speak. The first sound came out hoarse, broken.
—Hey —he muttered under his breath—. It's me again.
He cleared his throat, the sound foreign in the quiet.
—I don't... know if I'm doing this right. I don't think she ever explained the rules —his lips twitched with something close to a smile—. She always said You'd hear her anyway. Even when she didn't talk out loud.
His gaze flicked up toward the small wooden cross she'd placed on the wall. He hated that his chest hurt looking at it. Hated that something about it reminded him of her eyes when she spoke to it.
—She talks to You like You're someone real. Like You listen —his voice softened—. So maybe You do. Maybe You can hear me too.
He exhaled slowly, shoulders sagging.
—Just... keep her here. That's all I want. She's stubborn as hell, You know? Won't eat, won't talk, won't even look at me. But she's... she's still mine —his throat tightened, the words spilling raw and unguarded—. Please don't take her from me. And even less like this.
He stayed there until his knees went numb.
And then, when night fell again, he came back.
And the night after that.
And the next.
Every time the candles burned out, he replaced them. Every time the incense ran low, he found new ones, searching the cupboards for anything she might've left behind. He learned the rhythm of prayer not from belief, but from her -how she began softly, words measured, how she always ended with silence, eyes closed like she was listening for something he could never hear.
Soon, San began to whisper her own prayers aloud, repeating the same sentences he'd once overheard through the door: Deliver me from evil. Grant me peace. Forgive me for what I cannot change.
He didn't know what forgiveness was supposed to sound like, but he knew he wanted her to wake up to it.
And slowly, he began to believe -not in God, not exactly- but in the sound of her prayers in his mouth.
Days passed like that, a blur of candlelight and murmured words, until the house no longer smelled of blood and oil, but of wax and warmth.
And then, on the fifth morning, the stillness cracked.
It was a faint sound, barely there. The rustle of sheets. The small gasp of breath.
Y/n's lashes fluttered. Her vision swam with light and shadow, everything too bright, too heavy. Her tongue felt thick in her mouth, her lips dry.
When she tried to sit, the world tilted. She gripped the bedframe, breathing slowly until the vertigo eased. The last thing she remembered was the cold floor against her cheek -and his voice, shouting her name.
Now, the silence was thicker, but not empty. Something pulsed faintly through it. A rhythm.
She rose on trembling legs, bare feet dragging across the floor. The house was dim, curtains drawn. Each step down the hall took effort, the walls seeming to lean toward her, as though listening.
Then she heard it.
A voice.
Low. Rough. Unmistakable.
San.
She stopped. Her hand hovered just above the doorframe, steadying herself as she leaned toward the sound.
—Grant her strength —he murmured—. Forgive me for what I've done. And what I'll still do, if it means keeping her safe.
Her breath hitched.
He was praying.
She moved closer, her heartbeat a fragile thing, her disbelief heavier with every word.
—I don't have the right to ask You anything —he continued quietly—. But she does. She believes You're still listening, so maybe that's enough. Maybe if I speak like her, You'll listen to me too.
The words rolled out of him with an almost reverent rhythm, his voice steady, deep.
—I know I've hurt her. I know she hates me. But I can't lose her. So if You're listening, if You're out there... keep her alive. Let her open her eyes again. I'll take the rest, whatever comes, whatever price there is. Just let her wake up.
The sound of the chair scraping faintly against the floor made her flinch. He stayed kneeling.
She pressed a trembling hand against the wall, her throat thick.
He sounded nothing like the San she knew -the one who commanded, who controlled, whose words were always sharp and deliberate. Here, his voice was stripped bare, all edges dulled by something closer to... fear.
Y/n's vision blurred, tears burning unbidden at the corners of her eyes.
When she finally gathered enough strength to move, she stepped into the doorway.
San didn't hear her at first. His head was bowed, his hands clasped tightly before him. The candlelight traced the shape of his face, the dark circles beneath his eyes, the exhaustion carved deep into his expression.
—San —she whispered.
His head jerked up immediately. The shock in his eyes was so pure it almost broke her.
For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. The air between them trembled with everything left unsaid.
Then he was on his feet, crossing the space between them in three long strides. He stopped just short of touching her, as if afraid she'd vanish if he did. His eyes were wide open, almost as if afraid she'd disappear again if he blinked.
—You're awake —he breathed, disbelieving.
Y/n nodded weakly, the corners of her lips trembling.
—And you —she rasped softly— were praying.
Something flickered across his face -shame, relief, love- all tangled together.
—Maybe —he said quietly—. I was just... talking to whoever would listen.
Her eyes softened, though her voice still trembled.
—He was listening, San.
He didn't answer. He only looked at her, every line of his body still tense, as if he didn't yet believe she was real.
And in the dim candlelight, with her standing at the threshold of the room he had built for her faith, and him still half-kneeling in it, they seemed caught between two worlds -his sin and her salvation- finally breathing the same air again.
San rose slowly, like he wasn't sure if standing too fast would break whatever spell had brought her back. His chair scraped faintly against the floor, the sound swallowed by the soft hum of candlelight. For a moment, he just stood there, watching her. Her hair was tousled, her skin pale but alive, eyes glassy and uncertain.
He moved toward her carefully, as if she were a vision that might fade if he blinked too long. When he finally reached her, his hand lifted -hesitant, almost trembling. His fingers brushed her cheek.
Warm.
Alive.
He exhaled a sound between a breath and a prayer, one hand cradling her face, the other settling against her jaw like he was afraid to let go. His thumb traced the faint hollow beneath her cheekbone, memorizing the warmth, the pulse fluttering just under her skin.
Her lips parted, a faint attempt at a word -maybe his name- but he shook his head minutely, eyes dark, unreadable.
—Don't talk —he whispered, voice rough—. Not yet. We'll do something else first.
She swallowed hard, the muscles in her throat working. His palm lingered there for another moment, before sliding down, curling around her wrist.
Her pulse leapt beneath his fingers.
Without a word, he turned, guiding her through the dim hallway, past the chapel and into the open space of the house. The air was cooler there, touched by the smell of rain seeping through the cracked windowpanes.
The kitchen lights were off, but the faint glow from the city outside painted everything in dull gold. The counters were spotless, every surface wiped down like he'd been too restless to let them stay dirty.
Y/n's feet dragged against the floor as he led her to a chair. When he finally stopped, she sank into it, every movement small, slow, uncertain.
San released her wrist just long enough to reach for something on the counter: a bowl. She hadn't noticed it at first, but the faint aroma of broth drifted through the air. It had gone cold, but the effort in it was unmistakable.
He switched on the stove with mechanical precision, poured the soup into a pot, and stood there silently as it began to warm, the gentle bubbling filling the quiet.
Y/n's eyes followed him. She wanted to say something -to ask him what he was doing, or why he was praying for someone he'd once claimed didn't exist- but her voice felt locked somewhere deep in her chest.
He didn't look at her, not right away. Only when the soup was steaming again did he pour it back into the bowl, setting it on the table in front of her.
—Eat —he said quietly.
Her fingers tightened around the edge of the table.
—I'm... —she murmured, the beginning of denial.
His jaw flexed.
—You haven't eaten in days.
—I said I'm not hungry.
He held back the growl, clenching his jaw tight. That whole situation couldn't be repeating again, not after what they went through.
He inhaled through his nose, slow, sharp. Then, lowering his voice to something that was neither command nor plea, he said,
—Y/n.
Her name sounded different when he said it now. Not as a warning, not as a claim -almost like a confession.
She glanced up at him.
The candlelight from the other room still clung to his features, softening the usual sharpness in his face. But there was something else there too: fear. It flickered in his eyes, unguarded.
—I thought you were dying —he admitted quietly, resting one hand flat on the table, the other gripping the back of the chair opposite her—. I watched you stop moving. I prayed to a God I don't believe in because I didn't know what else to do.
She looked away, yet he slid the bowl closer. The faint steam curled upward between them.
Y/n's stomach twisted -not from hunger, but from the ache of it all: the gentleness in his gestures, the strange warmth in his hands, the knowledge that she had both hated and missed him more than she could bear.
He crouched slightly, lowering himself to her eye level. His fingers brushed hers lightly, guiding the spoon into her hand.
—I'm not asking —he said softly—. You need to eat.
For a second, she almost resisted out of sheer stubbornness. But then she saw his eyes again -the way they flickered over her face, cataloguing every blink, every faint tremor, as if making sure she wouldn't disappear.
Her hand shook as she lifted the spoon. The first sip burned faintly against her tongue. It tasted like salt, ginger... and, somehow, she could also taste all of his sleepless night poured onto the food.
He stayed there the whole time, kneeling beside her chair, one hand resting lightly against her arm.
—Why are you doing this? —she asked finally, her voice raw.
His gaze met hers, steady, unflinching.
—Because I failed you once. I won't do it again.
The spoon clinked against the bowl as she set it down. He exhaled, rising slowly. His hand lingered near her shoulder, but he didn't touch her again.
—Rest after you finish —he murmured—. I'll stay close.
She stared down at the half-empty bowl, the heat warming her trembling fingers.
—And if I don't? —she whispered, eyes still fixed on the soup.
He hesitated in the doorway.
—Then I'll keep praying until you do.
And with that, he disappeared down the hall -the faint sound of his footsteps leading back toward the chapel.
Y/n lifted the spoon again, the warmth in her chest indistinguishable from the ache.
In the silence that followed, she could almost hear him again -his voice low and uncertain, speaking words she never thought he'd learn. And for the first time in weeks, she let herself hope that maybe -just maybe- he was changing.
The rain hadn't stopped since she woke up. She remembered waking up to the light sound of drops hitting the windows and, almost three hours later, she was still hearing them.
It also crawled down the windows of San's office in long, uneven trails, blurring the city lights beyond the glass. He sat behind his desk, the low hum of the computer filling the room. There were papers spread out in front of him, though none of them had been read for hours.
When the door opened, he didn't look up right away.
Her footsteps were soft, careful -almost uncertain. The faint scent of broth and soap clung to her; she'd eaten, showered, changed into one of the sweaters he'd left in the wardrobe for her. He'd expected her to stay in her room, too weak to wander far. But now, there she was.
—San —she said quietly.
He looked up. His gaze sharpened, that instinctive flash of awareness that always came with her name.
For a long moment, he said nothing. Just watched her cross the threshold, her hand brushing the doorframe as if for balance. She looked smaller in the dim light -fragile, yes, but not afraid.
He leaned back in his chair slowly, the leather creaking.
—You should be resting —he said finally, voice low.
—I couldn't.
He tilted his head slightly, studying her.
—Something wrong?
She shook her head. Then, after a pause:
—Something right, maybe.
He frowned faintly, confusion flickering through his expression as she came closer. Her fingers traced the edge of the desk before she stopped in front of him. The faint hum of the rain filled the silence between them.
—I came to apologize —she said.
San's eyes lifted from her hands to her face. His jaw tightened, but he didn't move.
—I shouldn't have... —she swallowed, her voice trembling— I shouldn't have refused your food. That was cruel. You didn't deserve that, not after what you did for me.
He opened his mouth to speak, but she lifted her hand quickly.
—Let me finish.
Something in her tone stilled him.
—I've been thinking —she said quietly—. About how everything went wrong. How I kept trying to do things my way, even when I knew it would hurt you.
Her voice faltered, but she pressed on.
—I went to Hongjoong's party because I thought I could handle it. I met with Mia behind your back because I thought I could fix things, control them. I didn't listen. I thought I was helping and I just made things worse. And every time I pushed further, everything... fell apart.
San didn't move. His fingers drummed once against the desk, then stopped.
Y/n looked down, her voice softening.
—You were trying to protect me. And I... —she exhaled shakily— I made that impossible. I made you doubt if I was worth the risk —her eyes lifted then, searching his face—. I'm really sorry.
He stared at her for a long time, as if the words themselves had weight he couldn't quite hold. The silence that followed was heavy, almost unbearable. The air between them crackled faintly, the way it used to when they fought, when they wanted to touch each other and couldn't.
Then, slowly, he stood.
The chair scraped softly against the floor. He walked around the desk, every step measured, his expression unreadable. When he stopped in front of her, he was close enough for her to see the pulse in his neck, the faint tremor in his jaw.
—You're apologizing —he murmured— for surviving?
She blinked, startled.
—No. For...
—For not listening? —he pressed, voice still soft but edged—. For doing what you thought was right?
Her throat tightened.
—You told me to stay away from her.
—I did —he said—. And you didn't.
Her lips parted, but before she could answer, he stepped closer. The air thickened.
—I don't need your apologies, Y/n —he said, his voice barely above a whisper now—. You'll never have to apologize to me. I don't want to hear a single sorry from your mouth. Not to me, or anyone else. You're too much for that word.
Her breath hitched as his hand rose, brushing a damp strand of hair from her face. His fingers lingered at her temple, tracing the outline of her cheek as though reacquainting himself with every inch of her.
—I prayed for you —he murmured, eyes fixed on hers—. Do you know what that means for someone like me?
Her voice was small.
—I think so.
—Then you know —he said, leaning in— that I can't let you vanish again.
Before she could respond, his mouth was on hers.
It wasn't gentle, not at first. It was a collision of everything unsaid, every sleepless night, every bruise of regret that had lived between them. His hand cupped the back of her head, angling her closer as his lips moved against hers with hungry precision.
She gasped softly, fingers gripping the front of his shirt. The kiss deepened -slower now, desperate in a different way. His other hand slipped to her waist, drawing her nearer until the edge of the desk pressed into her hip.
When he finally pulled back, they were both breathing hard. And outside, thunder rolled across the city, a deep echo through the glass. Inside, he bent his forehead to hers, eyes closed, breathing her in like absolution.
His hand shot out, fingers tangling in her hair as he yanked her forward, crashing his mouth against hers in a kiss that was all teeth and hunger, a punishment and a promise in one. She gasped against his lips, her body melting into his as he pressed her back against the cold, polished surface of his desk. The wood dug into her spine, but she didn't care -the sting only made the heat pooling between her thighs worse.
His other hand was already at the hem of her t-shirt, tugging it upward, his calloused fingers skimming over the soft skin of her waist before he tore the fabric over her head, leaving her in nothing but her lace bra.
Her whole body heated up as his fingers traced the swell of her breasts, thumb hooking under the lace to free them, his touch rough but reverent.
—Fuck, you're perfect —he growled, his voice a low, possessive rumble as he palmed her, squeezing just hard enough to make her whimper—. As perfect as I kept dreaming of every night we were apart.
His mouth followed, hot and wet, his tongue swirling around her nipple before he bit down, sending a jolt of pleasure-pain straight to her clit.
She arched into him, her nails digging into his shoulders through the thin fabric of his dress shirt. He groaned against her skin, his hands moving to yank her shorts and panties down in one rough motion. The cool air hit her bare skin, but she barely noticed -all she could focus on was the way his fingers trailed down her stomach, tracing the dip of her navel before slipping between her thighs. She was already wet, her arousal slick on his fingers as he teased her entrance, circling but never quite giving her what she needed.
—San —his name came out as a broken plea, her hips bucking against his hand, desperate.
He chuckled darkly, the sound vibrating against her collarbone where his lips pressed.
—Patience —but his own control was fraying.
She could feel it in the way his breath hitched, in the tension coiled in his muscles as he lifted her effortlessly, her legs wrapping around his waist. His hands gripped her ass, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he carried her toward his room, his strides long and purposeful.
The door shut behind them with a final click, plunging them into dim, golden light -just enough to see the way his black hair fell over his forehead, the way his brown eyes burned into hers as he lowered her onto the bed.
For a moment, he hesitated. His hands, which had been so rough moments ago, gentled as they hovered over her, his thumb brushing her cheekbone. She hadn't recovered already from her incident, she was still weak. And the way her knees wobbled against the edge of the bed as he set her down was the wake up call he needed to get back to his senses.
—Angel, you're still recovering.
—If I didn't stop you, it's because I want this —she confronted him.
—Are you sure? —his voice was rough, but beneath it was something softer, concern. Fear, even.
She reached up, her fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him down until their lips barely touched.
—I'm fine —she whispered—. I need this.
That was all it took.
His mouth crashed back onto hers, his kiss slower now, deeper, like he was savoring the taste of her after weeks of deprivation. His hands followed, mapping her body as if memorizing every inch: the curve of her waist, the flare of her hips, the way her skin pebbled under his touch.
He kissed his way down her throat, his lips lingering at the pulse point before moving lower, tracing the swell of her breasts, the tight peaks of her nipples, the trembling plane of her stomach. When he reached the apex of her thighs, he didn't hesitate. His tongue dragged through her folds, slow and deliberate, tasting her like she was the finest wine. Like she was the only thing she needed to properly function.
She cried out, her back arching off the bed, her fingers tangling in his hair.
—Fuck, San... —his name was a prayer and a curse, her voice breaking as his fingers joined his mouth, two slipping inside her while his thumb circled her clit.
He worked her with a precision that made her vision blur, his free hand gripping her thigh, holding her open for him.
—So wet for me —he murmured against her, his breath hot—. Always so fucking ready.
She couldn't answer. Couldn't do anything but writhe beneath him, her body coiling tighter, her orgasm building like a storm. But just as she was about to tip over the edge, he pulled back, leaving her gasping, empty.
She whined in protest, but the sound died in her throat as he crawled up her body, his cock thick and heavy against her thigh.
His eyes never left hers as he positioned himself at her entrance, the broad head of his cock pressing against her slick folds.
She could feel how hard he was, how much he wanted her, but he didn't rush. Instead, he pushed inside her slowly, inch by excruciating inch, letting her stretch around him, her walls clenching desperately. A shuddering breath escaped her as he bottomed out, his hips flush against hers, his cock buried deep.
—Fuck —he groaned, his forehead pressing to hers—. You were made just for me.
She couldn't form words. Could only cling to him as he began to move, his hips rolling into hers with a deliberate slowness that made her whimper. His hands cradled her ass, lifting her just enough to change the angle, his cock dragging against that perfect spot inside her with every thrust. She could feel the way he pulsed inside her, the way his control was slipping, his movements growing rougher, more desperate.
—You're so fucking beautiful —he growled, his lips brushing her ear, his breath hot—. You're my angel.
His pace quickened, his thrusts deeper, harder, the bed creaking beneath them. She met him stroke for stroke, her nails raking down his back, her legs locking around his waist as her orgasm crashed over her.
—San... I'm... fuck —her words dissolved into a broken cry as her pussy clenched around him, her release milking his cock.
He groaned, his rhythm faltering as his own climax tore through him, his cock twitching deep inside her as he came, filling her with thick, hot spurts.
He collapsed on top of her, his weight pressing her into the mattress, his heart pounding against hers. His breath was ragged, his skin slick with sweat as he buried his face in the crook of her neck, his lips pressing a soft, lingering kiss to her shoulder.
The sheets were still tangled around them, the air heavy with the warmth of their skin and the faint scent of rain that drifted through the half-open window. Y/n lay against his chest, her breathing slow but not quite steady, her fingers tracing absent circles against his ribs.
San hadn't moved since she'd fallen silent. His hand rested at the small of her back, unmoving, as if any shift might break whatever fragile peace they'd carved out between them.
For a while, there was only the soft hum of the city far below and the whisper of her heartbeat against his skin.
Then, quietly -almost too quiet- he said:
—I need to say this before I lose the nerve.
Y/n blinked up at him, her cheek brushing his shoulder. He didn't look at her at first, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the ceiling, jaw tight like he was forcing the words out one by one.
—I was wrong —he said—. About everything. The way I left, the way I handled Mia, the way I handled you.
Her fingers stilled against his chest, but she didn't interrupt.
—I let fear call itself love —he continued—. I told myself I was protecting you, but I was just... controlling you. Because I didn't trust that you'd stay if I wasn't holding on so tight —his voice cracked slightly at the edges—. And when I left, I thought I was saving us both. I didn't even say goodbye because I was afraid that if I did, I'd never walk away.
The silence stretched, filled only by her breathing and the distant echo of thunder rolling away.
Y/n's hand slid up, fingers brushing his jaw.
—You broke me when you left.
His eyes finally dropped to hers -dark, wet, full of the kind of remorse that no words could smooth over.
—I know.
Her voice was soft but steady.
—And I made it worse. I went looking for answers in all the wrong places. I should've trusted you, or at least trusted us.
He shifted, turning fully toward her, his palm cupping her face with a tenderness that felt almost out of place in someone like him.
—You were trying to survive me —he whispered—. I can't blame you for that.
Her throat tightened.
—And yet you still kept me here.
—I couldn't lose you again —his thumb brushed her cheekbone—. Not when I knew what they'd do to you. What I had already done to you.
The confession hung between them, raw and heavy, until Y/n leaned forward and kissed him -slow this time, not desperate, not claiming. Just quiet forgiveness, given and received.
When they parted, she rested her forehead against his.
—From now on, we will do this together. We tell each other everything. The good, the bad, the things we're too afraid to say out loud. We stop fighting alone —he said.
Her chest ached with something that wasn't quite relief, but it was close.
—A real team —she murmured.
His lips curved faintly.
—A real team.
For a long while, they just stayed there -the world outside forgotten, their bodies tangled under the sheets, breathing in sync. The moonlight caught in his hair, silvering the edges of his face, softening the sharp lines she used to fear.
At some point, his fingers found hers beneath the covers, and she felt the faint squeeze -hesitant, almost shy. She squeezed back.
It wasn't forgiveness. Not yet. But it was a start.
Taglist: @a-tiny-thing , @brown88 , @justineasian
Read Chapter 31 from the story Until You're Mine || Choi San by Lucythor_xoxx (Lucy A.) with 1 reads. choisan, choisa...
Warnings: dom!San, sub!reader, voyeourism, use of sex toys, bondage, dirty talk, BDSM, exhibitionism, rough sex.
Summary: She was surprised by how fast her life went from the perfect fairytale to the destructive mess it had turned into. Dealing with a cheater ex boyfriend, having to move out to a different place because the house she lived in belonged to that man she once dreamed of spending the rest of her life with, while continuously being underappreciated at work... It was as if life was telling her to stop dreaming big, to go back to her small town, Bibury, and help her parents run the small farm her family had owned for decades.
At least until she received a call from her friend.
A sudden vacancy as an assistant showed up on one of her friend's system, having her being encouraged to take that big step and apply for it. She had no hopes for it. Mainly because she didn't have any experience on the field, and she didn't comply with most of the requirements that were added on the offer -and which most of them sounded ridiculous and exaggerated for the position, making her wonder who was the freak who needed so many guidelines in order to hire someone to pick up the phone and schedule events.
Although that hotel she'd be working on was much more than anything she could've come up with.
Choi San wasn't someone easy to deal with. After his previous assistant presented his resignation letter on his desk, he felt forced to start the whole selection process again -after merely two months.
Sure that he was being way too strict, enough to find that anyone who applied for the position wasn't enough, he asked one of his friends to be in charge of the interviews and the selection of the most adequate candidate.
Little did he know Wooyoung would hire the imperfectly perfect candidate for him, sure that she'd help him in many ways other than just in dealing with the responsibilities of his position.
A new challenge will come their way as soon as she steps inside the hotel.
Y/n will have to learn how to mold onto him and deal with all his small habits and requirements, and San will find himself trying to open up and let out all those same things that turned him into the person he was.
The more she digs in Kalla and all of its secrets and exciting corners, the deeper she'll dive into San's heart and soul... Although, maybe, she won't be able to take it.
Kalla opens its doors to you, sharing the vast amount of filthy and erotic plans it offers, and that you can join with a partner... Or maybe just by yourself.
Hope you enjoy your stay.
Chapter duration: 13 minutes
San didn't ask about the black shiny paper bag she carried to the office, he didn't bring it up, it didn't even cross his mind to question himself about it. Not even while he was eyeing her perfect posture from his seat.
And even less when they both moved into one of the meetings that were scheduled for that day. In fact, he found himself unable to pay attention to anything related to the meeting, because she kept stealing all of his attention without having to do anything. And it surprised him how much control she had over him, without being aware of it.
Or maybe she was aware. That was what he understood when a notification popped up on his laptop.
Y/n: I can feel your eyes on me.
San: Good, that's exactly how it should be like.
Y/n: San, I can't focus.
San: It serves you well. That's how I feel whenever you're around.
Y/n dedicated a subtle glance at him, blushed cheeks barely noticeable for the rest, but evident enough for him to smirk to himself.
Y/n: Let me give you a valid reason to keep your eyes on me, then.
He was intrigued immediately, waiting for a message that seemed to never make its way to his computer.
Y/n: Look under the table.
Knowing no one was paying attention to her, heading the table at the opposite side San was, each of them on each extreme, she managed to lift her skirt as much as she could. Both of her hands remained under the table, so it wouldn't be obvious the moment she moved her panties aside to expose herself.
San instantly faked to drop his pen to be able to look in her direction. Parted legs were offering him an invitation he hated not being able to accept, while her fingers made him feel instantly jealous.
His face was serious when he went back to his original position, feeling his cock throb at the sight of her licking the same fingers that had been through her folds, before she turned one of the pages in her notebook.
San: I'm so patient with you, yet you're so unfair with me...
Y/n: Maybe I don't want you being patient anymore...
She meant those words. And she proved it later that day, when she guided him to one of the suites where they usually spent time preparing before heading to the Spadix. Y/n was neatly waiting for him in the middle of the room, hair collected so it wouldn't disturb the sight: her body exposed from her back to her calves because she couldn't tie the dress by herself.
And while getting closer, he noticed the new pieces of lingerie he hadn't seen ever before. There was a thin chain that surrounded her waist, but that he guessed was tied by the front part, and the lower part had the shape of a thong, but didn't cover either her entrance or her ass.
—Is this what you've been carrying around this morning? —he whispered, breathing warmly when falling over her exposed shoulder.
—I hope you'll like it when you see it better.
Slowly, he started buttoning the tight dress he bought her, covering every bit of exposed skin until nothing was seen at all. It was then, when he turned, that he realized the way that chain wasn't tied to her bra, but the eternity chain around her neck.
—You're making it so difficult not to fuck you right here.
—Good thing you claimed how patient you were, this morning.
Her fingers caressing his chin teased him, before she moved her hand away to put her mask on and walk towards the door. He couldn't know what she was planning, but her attitude just pushed him to follow wherever she went. It usually was like that, but that night she was hypnotic.
He wasn't surprised when he saw the small stage prepared in the middle of the Spadix, although he didn't remember accepting any requests for it.
—What? —she innocently asked.
San could see the way her eyes became bigger behind that mask, and he knew that only meant she wasn't innocent at all.
—The stage —he moved his head toward that spot—. I didn't allow any show to happen tonight.
—I know —she nodded—. I did. And before you kill me, it's because I know the person doing it.
Jealousy immediately installed in him, making him adopt a more defensive posture while facing her. Who could she know in that world, interested in performing, when he was the only one she supposedly knew in that world because he introduced her to it?
—You think I'd go out there with a pair of old panties?
It took him a few seconds to realize what she meant, disbelief making it harder for him to accept what she was saying.
Y/n blocked the request from coming to him. It was hard, but she managed to destroy the unbreakable wall just so he'd pay attention to something else that wasn't his computer, and that was when he ate her out in front of his desk after the little show during the meeting.
—And you aren't going with that new lingerie either.
She showed off her disappointment in the lower half of her face that was visible.
—Why not?
—Because you aren't ready.
—Good, now let me be the one judging that —she replied almost instantly.
—I don't want you to force yourself to do it.
—I'm not forcing myself to do anything.
San had molded into the necessities she had outside their sessions. He kept trying to be the romantic, cozy man she liked, he kept breaking his limits to be as accessible as possible to her, and it was just as fair she balanced the situation by flexing into the only thing she hadn't done for him yet.
Before her, he was a regular in doing those shows with Hyori, and it wasn't a secret he kind of missed doing them, but her reaction during the first time pushed him back from ever trying to do it again. And after hearing the story with Sujin, she understood why.
—It's part of what you are, it's part of what you like. I also want it to be a part of who I am and what I like —her palm covered his bicep—. Let me try it again, at least.
—The second I feel there's something off, I won't wait for you to say the safeword. I'll get you out of there before.
There were no drinks, just lots of intimate touches to reinforce her security on her decision, to calm her down when her heart was about to escape through her mouth. More than once, he kissed her to let her go of the judgement that was hunting her. The hottest woman alive couldn't be scared of being judged by people that were dying to get her to bed in his place.
His fingers held her hand tight when the moment to get on the stage came, guiding her steps at the same time she felt his support.
Before she could get too clouded by some of the eyes watching her, San cupped her cheeks and trapped her lips so he would be the only thing in her head at that moment. And it worked. Suddenly, her mind, her body, her feelings... all of her could only focus on the only person she cared about in that room.
It was like a disguise fell on him the moment he stepped on the stage. His movements weren't quick, but they were determined. For a while, San stole the attention from everyone in the room, including her. She could see the way some of the women looked at him while he undressed her, button by button, getting delighted by her body until he finally chose to address her.
Although San's attention was only on her, the way the chain went from her eternity collar to the valley of her breasts, creating a butterfly shape just at the level of her ribs. Her bra was a see-through fabric that covered everything except for her nipples, while two clips hung from the cup.
She knew what she did when she chose that outfit.
—What do you want?
She blinked, confused at the question. When she got there, she thought it'd be only San making decisions and following along.
—Angel, don't make me wait —his digits pressed on her cheeks when he forced her to look him in the eyes—. What do you want?
Then she remembered the texts they exchanged earlier that morning, how he threatened her with using her mouth only to end up being the one eating her out.
—I want you to fuck my mouth... sir.
His eyes darkened when she called him like that for the first time. She usually omitted any names that weren't his, she usually avoided addressing him as anything else, but that night.
—On your knees.
Y/n obeyed, kneeling in front of him, her hands on her lap while she waited for him to unzip his pants and pull down his boxers just to set himself free.
—I won't move until you tell me first —he warned her.
She tried to hold back her smile when she looked up to him, licking her lips as sensually as she could before she spoke again.
—Put it on my lips.
His tip lay on her lower lip. He didn't need to tell her anything before she moved her tongue around it, licking him to get him wet enough. At some point, when she started to suck him off, her eyes moved down to his pubes, concentrating on how to place her lips.
—Eyes on me, angel —he called her out, getting Y/n to raise her eyes again—. What do you want?
He stopped her before she could move her head back to speak, barely making her words understandable with his dick still in her mouth.
—Fuck my mouth.
One hand was placed on her head, the other caressed her cheek, and once she was settled in place, he started rocking his hips. Y/n helped, slightly moving her head until he increased the speed to the point that it made her gag a few times. Although it wasn't until later that she felt she was choking.
—Relax your throat, angel —he groaned—. Let me in.
San managed to keep her in place, sliding himself as deep in her throat as he could, and he kept her there for a few seconds. Her nose was tight against his lower belly, her chin started dripping some of the saliva rolling down her lips while the floor started being proof of how aroused she was for him. A new throb kicked in when, instead of moving her away, San pinched her nose, making it impossible for her to breathe. Her throat started clenching around him when the need for air started being obvious, and it was then when he let go of her.
She inhaled loudly, looking up to him with a daring look that only pushed him to ask the question again.
—What do you want?
—Take control of me.
He smirked at her answer, proceeding to move two of his fingers so she'd get up from the floor. Barely giving her time to stabilize, he made her turn on her heels, so she'd be facing the public.
—You know the safeword —he whispered on her shoulder, a hand on her hip.
—So close to the edge are you going to push me? —she challenged him.
—Maybe.
It was impressive how despite being in front of the small group of people gathered around them, her attention couldn't shift away from San. Those people were there, yes, but they seemed to be there as an added element to the pleasure he made her feel. It was filthy, it was secret. But it felt so forbidden and wrong that it felt right.
Despite being the one to soon be tied up, she felt like in control of the pleasure of all of them.
She gasped when his fingers pulled a bit from the collar, while his other hand pulled from one of the strings at the side of the stage, pulling from one of the chains that would later descend slowly from the ceiling.
She heard a click in the back of her ear, but instead of being scared, she felt her own arousal leaking down her thighs.
—What do you want?
—Put the clips on my nipples.
And he did it, completing the outfit with the last piece she didn't want to be the one to place properly.
—Turn around. Let me see how good it looks.
She didn't have to fight much with the chain to move, it was still a bit loose. His eyes moved down her body with a blink, smirking at how good she looked, and how she was completely and only his.
—What do you want?
—Show me who I belong to, I might've forgotten.
He didn't need to be told twice.
At the same time she was pronouncing those words, he was already unbuttoning his black shirt until his torso was exposed and he had more freedom to move. She turned again, silencing the gasp with her lip trapped under her teeth when his fingers sank in her wet channel with no previous warning, stretching her out, getting her ready for what was to come.
It confused her how she only felt one hand on her body, until the chain forced her neck up. It wasn't uncomfortable, and it even made her wrap around him tightly when he first slid himself in.
—It's going to be so easy for you, angel. I know you'll be able to take it.
His pounds followed a rhythm, all working with the same speed. They weren't too fast, but they were deep and steady, enough to drive her mind somewhere, somewhere where he was the only one who existed.
She was getting used to that position, to have her neck a bit higher, when his thrusts got a little too fast and the string pulled a little bit more from her neck. It wasn't like the collar was that tight around her skin, but the way it was pulled caused a pressure on her throat that made it a little bit more difficult for her to breathe. Not in a way that scared her, but in a way that made her clench so tight around him that she could hear San groan behind her.
—Hands on me always, angel.
His voice sounded so authoritative despite his shaky breath. She moved her hands behind her, holding onto his left arm while she fought for some stability.
—How does it feel?
She was trying so hard to focus, she forgot to answer.
He momentarily pulled from the string again, shortly causing the collar to tighten against her throat until she answered.
—Yes. Please, don't stop.
—That's my good girl —he praised her.
San angled his hips, putting himself just in the right position so he could reward Y/n by hitting the right spot the few times she needed to finally let herself go.
He could feel it. It was on the way her walls kept squeezing him tighter, and the way her breath became faster and irregular, her moans kept escaping her mouth because she couldn't keep her lips together... She was so close.
—Are you a good girl?
—Yes.
—Then, what do good girls do?
—Please, let me cum, sir.
—No, hold on.
Y/n was about to let go of a disappointed whine, but San moved before she could. He let go of the string, the chain going back to its loose original position, when he glued her to his body. A quick slap on her ass, and he was pounding into her senselessly, one hand on her throat and the other arm hooking behind her elbows to keep her still in place.
—Now, angel. Cum with me.
Two thrusts more and Y/n felt like she was about to collapse by the intense orgasm. Her knees went so weak that she was thanking San for being behind her, holding her body to keep her from falling. She knew her underswear was ruined when she felt herself leaking her own juices with his cum, but it was one of his least of her worries.
Actually, she reached a level of peace that she thought she had no worries at all.
Through the beep of her ears, Y/n could hear the tingling sound of chains above her when San finally unhooked her collar from them. Slowly, he turned her around, his thumbs moved over the half of her face that was uncovered, checking on her.
—Are you alright? —he whispered.
—Uh-hum.
—Let's go to the suite.
She was so disconnected from reality, that she didn't know when San managed to cover the front part of her body with the dress, before he carried her out of the stage. She swore she only rested her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes for a few seconds, but when she opened them they were already in the suit he always saved for them.
San carefully got rid of all of the clothes, took off the clips on her nipples, and prepared the bath just for her to sink inside. And she just let herself to be at his mercy, letting him guide her, while her eyes remained half closed before the warm water hugged her. He didn't take long to join her, placing himself behind her so his chest would work as a comfortable place for her to rest her head on.
—We could've stayed in the club —she mumbled.
—It was too much stimulation —his fingers, which were rough on her twenty minutes back, were moving softly on her skin—. It's better for you to clean up here and enjoy the aftercare away from all of that. At least the first few times.
—How did I do it?
—You were amazing —he let her know, his lips rubbing on her temple—. If I had been in the crowd, I probably would've had a hard time keeping my eyes away from you. You're hypnotic, and everyone was a witness of that tonight.
—To be fair, I only care about being hypnotic for you.
—Angel, you have me trapped on an ecstasy I don't want to ever escape.
She relaxed even more on him, almost melting with his touch.
—You deserve some good ramen tonight, huh? Two bottles of soju and a bag of your favorite snack.
—Is that a way to invite me to spend the night at your place?
—You don't need an invitation for that.
Every door in his life was already open for her to sneak in, she didn't need any permission.
Taglist: @brown88
Read Chapter 35 from the story Kalla || Choi San by Lucythor_xoxx (Lucy A.) with 1 reads. readerinsert, ateez, ff. San...
Hey i miss u been awhile havent came into ur storys 🥺 how r u doing?
Ps. Btw i dont know ur name or nickname or not sure if u r okay saying ur name/nick name here, so its okay. But do u mind if i call u amy? Bcs i always remind myself by this so i can find u and start reading 😅
Heyyy. Sorry for replying so late, it's been such crazy months 😭 I'm okay, how are you???
Warnings: Explicit language, mention of death and suicide, demonology, violence, rough sex
Summary: Y/n thought her life couldn't get worse after losing her parents in a tragic accident. Years after, she's aware of everyone moving forward, while she's in the same place, isolated and alone. She struggles to find meaning in a world that seems indifferent to her grief. Desperate for comfort, to feel the deep connection she had been missing, she starts the manifestation, expecting an inoffensive entity to walk with her that rough path. What she doesn't know is that she awoke the mysterious entity tied to an old necklace around her neck.
Jungkook, a mysterious and seductive figure, appears in her life, offering the company she craves. But as his presence grows stronger, so does the unsettling sense that there's more to him -and the necklace- than meets the eye, unfolding all the reasons that took him to that place.
Now, as the past bleeds into the present, Y/n must fight with her growing feelings for the demon who seems familiar yet dangerous. Jungkook is determined to reclaim his power, but in doing so, he may doom Y/n once again. Bound by fate, the two are locked in a dangerous mix of love, redemption, and the looming threat of destruction.
Will they break the curse that has haunted them both, or will history repeat itself with devastating consequences?
Chapter duration: 23 minutes
For a moment, Jungkook didn't move. He couldn't.
The world around him -papers rustling, chairs scraping, whispers drifting between shelves- blurred into static. All that existed was her face, that look in her eyes, and the absence of everything that made him human.
Her confusion burned more painful than any rejection. What he saw in her eyes wasn't anger, it wasn't disgust; it was emptiness. Like she was staring back to a stranger who was bothering her.
He took a step back, but his legs barely worked. His fingers hovered midair, remembering the shape of her arm, the way her pulse had fluttered once under his touch. It was gone.
—I... —he started, but his voice cracked in half.
She blinked, hesitated, a polite distance in her gaze.
—Do you... need something?
It shouldn't have hurt, those words shouldn’t have ripped his heart open that way. They were harmless, almost kind -like she always was with everyone but herself. But they tore through him like glass.
He swallowed hard, his throat closing. Every instinct screamed at him to say her name, to make her remember. But something deep inside -the part that had survived the necklace, the void, the vatraels- whispered not yet.
His breath came shallow.
—No. I... sorry. I thought you were someone else.
Her brow furrowed, uncertain, but she only nodded once before brushing past him. The faint scent of her shampoo, that same lavender warmth, hit him like a punch. And then she was gone, disappearing down the row, steps soft, fading.
He stood there long after she'd vanished, the echo of her voice stuck in his chest like a heartbeat that refused to sync.
Minutes passed. Maybe hours. He didn't know.
The library emptied around him in quiet waves -the sound of chairs scraping, whispers fading, lights dimming one by one. Until it was just him. Alone.
Or so he thought.
The air shifted behind him -an almost inaudible hum, like a chord struck too low to hear. His skin prickled.
Jungkook turned sharply. There, half-hidden in the fading light between the bookshelves, stood one of them. A vatrael. The same faceless figure he'd seen in that white void -its shape unnervingly human and yet wrong. Too still. Too clean for the world around it.
The silence between them stretched, brittle and heavy.
Jungkook's chest rose and fell, anger burning through the disbelief. His hands curled into fists.
—You —he spat, the word more like a growl than speech.
The figure didn't move, didn't speak either. The lamplight slid across its dark form, revealing no face, no eyes -just that faint shimmer beneath its hood, like light caught in water.
Something inside Jungkook snapped.
In two strides, he crossed the distance between them. His hand shot out, seizing the front of the vatrael's cloak, dragging it down with a force that sent the books around them trembling.
—You think this is funny? —he hissed, his voice raw—. You think this is some kind of joke?
The vatrael didn't resist. It simply let him hold it there, as if indulging the tantrum of a mortal child. Jungkook's grip tightened. His face was inches from the void beneath its hood, and the absence of features made his stomach turn.
—She doesn't know me —he said through gritted teeth, each word trembling with fury—. What did you do?! You erased me from her.
Still, silence.
—Answer me! —his shout cracked through the empty room, echoing against the high walls— You told me to prove myself, you told me to relive the love that seemed to die. But how the hell am I supposed to do that if she doesn't even remember who I am?
The vatrael's head tilted, slow and deliberate, the movement too precise to be human. When it finally spoke, its voice wasn't one -it was several, layered whispers vibrating inside his skull.
—We said nothing of memory, or her knowing what you two lived. The first time, she lived your love with two memories of you. And now, she has to live your love with no memory at all.
The words made his breath catch. Jungkook's grip faltered, but only for a second. Then he shoved the vatrael back against the shelf, books tumbling to the floor.
—You said I had fifteen days —he snarled—. You didn't say you'd wipe her mind. That's not a test, that's punishment.
The air around them trembled faintly, as if reality itself didn't like being touched by something not meant to exist here.
—The heart remembers what the mind forgets, and the unknown pain in her heart shouldn't cloud the decisions in her oblivious mind.
—Don't talk in riddles! —Jungkook's voice cracked, loud enough to make the lights overhead flicker— I'm done with your cryptic bullshit. Tell me what you did to her!
The vatrael's silence returned. But this time, something about it changed. It wasn't apathy, it was weight. A heavy pressure, like the full gravity of its gaze was suddenly on him, though it had no eyes to see.
When it spoke again, the sound seemed to come from the walls themselves.
—She is not yours to command. Love must choose again. It's a test. She should do what you didn't do.
Jungkook froze, almost ready to give up trying to understand what was said.
The vatrael stepped back, and before he could react, its form began to unravel -edges dissolving into threads of dark smoke that hissed and scattered like ash in the wind.
—Wait...
He reached out, but his fingers passed through empty air. The last wisp of its presence vanished into the faint hum of the fluorescent lights, leaving behind the echo of its words still vibrating in his chest.
Love must choose again.
Jungkook stood there, breathless, his knuckles still white around the collar of a ghost. Then his hand fell, slow and defeated, to his side.
She didn't remember him.
And the only way to bring her back -to bring them back- was to make her fall in love with him all over again.
He turned toward the library doors, their reflection catching the hollow ache in his eyes.
Fifteen days.
And now, he understood the real cruelty of the test.
By the time he stumbled outside, the city had already changed colors -the sodium lights giving everything a jaundiced glow, the streets wet with the drizzle that hadn't stopped since his arrival. His reflection stared back at him from a store window: hair tousled, eyes hollow, clothes still too dark, too wrong for this world.
Fifteen days.
He pressed a palm to the glass, the ghost of his reflection staring back like someone he didn't recognize.
He whispered her name again. It didn't sound the same anymore.
The rain started falling harder. He didn't move, he didn't care. He let it soak through his shirt, his hair, let it cool the fire rising in his throat. His heart ached with something that wasn't grief -at least, not exactly.
If the vatraels thought this was enough to break him, they were wrong. She had looked at him like a stranger, so he’d make it a challenge to become someone worth knowing again.
He clenched his jaw, water dripping from his lashes. The city blurred around him: cars hissing past, neon lights bleeding into puddles. Somewhere in all that noise, he could almost hear her laugh again.
Fifteen days.
Fifteen days to make her fall in love with him all over again.
And for the first time since the void, a grim smile cut through the exhaustion clouding his face. He only needed to find out how to get her to remember, or how to get her to love him even if her mind was blank. That was it.
The city was sleepless.
Jungkook walked through it like a ghost, the night air cutting cold against his bare hands, the weight of what he'd just heard still pressing into his skull. Every step echoed hollow on the pavement, the world blurring into streaks of streetlights and passing cars.
He didn't know where he was going. He only knew he couldn't stop moving.
Fifteen days.
Those words repeated in his mind like a curse, like it might anchor him somehow. But it didn't. It only made the hours feel shorter, tighter, like a rope pulling against his throat.
The streets emptied as he climbed the hill that led to the old bridge. The one that stretched over the narrow river dividing the campus from the outskirts. The air there smelled faintly of metal and rain. Wind brushed his hair, carrying the distant hum of traffic and the occasional horn below.
Then... something.
A figure ahead, small against the vastness of the bridge, sitting on the stone ledge with their back turned to him.
He slowed.
From afar, it could've been anyone -a stranger, a student, maybe someone watching the water. But something about the curve of her shoulders, the shape of her hair tugged by the wind, struck him like a blade through the ribs.
His feet froze mid-step.
—Y/n?
The word came out too soft, almost swallowed by the wind.
No answer.
He walked faster, his breath catching, shoes slapping against the wet concrete. The closer he got, the clearer the details became: her loose hoodie, the way her legs dangled over the edge, the small, trembling motion of her hand gripping the cold metal rail.
—Y/n...
She didn't turn around.
And then he saw it: her fingers sliding. The shift of her body, almost imperceptible, leaning forward.
—Y/n!
He ran.
The world blurred, the night shrank to that single point: her, inches from the drop, the black river swirling far below. His pulse thundered in his ears as he reached out, his voice cracking.
—Stop! Please.
But she didn't even flinch.
She just stared straight ahead, the wind whipping through her hair, her face eerily calm. The kind of calm that came when pain had already hollowed everything out.
He was right behind her, close enough to see the faint shimmer of tears tracing down her cheeks. The sight shattered something inside him.
—Don't do this —he begged, his voice breaking, barely audible—. Y/n, please.
She tilted her head slightly, as if the sound of her own name startled her -but still, she didn't look back.
—I can't take it anymore —she whispered, her voice fragile, the words ripped away by the wind—. Everything hurts. I keep thinking they all will come back, but they won't. And I can't keep waiting for someone who will never come back.
Jungkook's heart stopped.
It felt like the ground beneath him gave way.
For some reason, he was convinced she was talking about him.
The ache in her tone, the hollow tremor in her voice -she was mourning her parents, him... She was mourning the person she was when she was with them, the feeling of being sure nothing would be able to drag her down.
His hands trembled as he reached out, but he couldn't touch her -not yet. His throat tightened with fear, because if he startled her, if she slipped, he wouldn't reach her in time.
—Y/n —he whispered again, softer this time, almost reverent—. Please, step back.
Her fingers loosened a little more, as if she hadn't even heard him.
The streetlights above flickered, throwing shards of gold across the wet metal. Somewhere below, a siren wailed, distant and lonely.
Jungkook's chest heaved. He could hear the blood pounding in his ears, the burn of tears he didn't notice spilling down his face. He wanted to scream her name, to grab her, to shake her, to tell her he was right there. But the vatrael's words echoed in his head: Love must choose again.
If she didn't remember him -if she didn't know him-, would she even hear him and follow his advice?
His hand hovered inches from her shoulder, his breath trembling. He wanted to believe something inside her would recognize him. The way her soul once did, despite the centuries that flew in between those both lifetimes
—Y/n —he tried again, his voice barely more than a broken whisper—, don't go where I can't follow.
Her body stilled. For a split second, she froze -as if something invisible had brushed through her chest. Then, slowly, she turned her head and her eyes met his.
For a heartbeat, Jungkook thought -no, he felt- that she knew him. That she saw something familiar in the tears streaking down his face, in the desperation etched into his every breath. But the light in her gaze was faint, confused. Like a flicker trying to find its flame.
Her lips parted, trembling.
—Who...
The wind surged, strong and sudden, throwing her hair across her face. Her hand slipped from the rail.
—Y/n!
Jungkook lunged.
His fingers barely caught her wrist, the shock of contact jarring through him like electricity. His other hand slammed against the ledge, nails scraping against the cold stone as he pulled her back with all the strength he had left.
She fell against him, her body collapsing into his chest, both of them shaking and breathless.
For a long moment, neither of them moved nor spoke. They could only hear the sound of their uneven breaths, the river roaring below, the echo of his heart hammering wildly beneath her ear.
Her eyes lifted to his face: red, wet, trembling. And though she didn't say it aloud, Jungkook saw the question there. The clear doubt on why he acted like he knew her, when she didn’t know him.
He swallowed hard, fingers still clutching her wrist as if letting go would make her vanish all over again. He couldn't answer her, not if he didn’t want to look like a freak and push her away completely.
All he could do was hold her a little tighter and silently promise that no matter what it took, he wouldn't lose her again.
The wind had quieted. The world was still, except for the faint rush of the river below and the ragged sound of their breathing. Jungkook could feel her trembling against him, the shuddering pulse in her wrist where his hand still clung to her.
For a few seconds, neither of them moved. It was as if time itself had cracked open -only the two of them left on that narrow ledge between life and death.
Y/n's breath hitched, her face pressed to his chest, her body limp from shock. He could feel every sob that fought its way out of her throat, silent but violent, wracking her like she'd been carrying it for too long.
When she finally pulled away, it wasn't sudden. It was slow, hesitant -like something deep inside her didn't want to.
Her eyes met his, and he was able to see the loss among the redness and the glassy shape of her tears.
—Why... why did you stop me?
Jungkook's chest caved at the question. He wanted to say: "Because I love you, because I've already lost you once and I can't survive losing you again".
But he couldn't.
He swallowed hard, forcing the words down. His voice came out rough, barely holding steady.
—Because you don't deserve to die like that.
Y/n blinked, confusion cutting through her grief. She looked around like she was waking up from a dream -the bridge, the river, his hand still gripping her arm. Slowly, she pulled back a few inches more. Her gaze dropped to his clothes: black, dirt-stained, a streak of dried blood near the collar from his earlier fall. He looked like he'd come straight out of the dark.
Her voice was small when she asked:
—Do I... know you?
Jungkook's throat tightened. He stared at her for a moment too long -long enough for her to shift uneasily under the weight of it, long enough for his silence to betray how much it hurt.
She really didn't remember.
He forced a faint, trembling smile.
—I... I'm in your class. I don't go much, that's probably why you don't remember me.
Her brow furrowed. She searched his face, as if trying to match the voice, the eyes, the shape of him to some buried memory. But there was nothing. Only that quiet ache in her chest, something raw and invisible that she couldn't explain.
—Really? —she murmured, like she was testing the word against her tongue, hoping it would spark recognition.
—Yeah —he said softly, almost whispering—. We had a group project once. You were the one who actually did the work.
A faint, bewildered laugh slipped out of her -not because it was funny, but because her body didn't know what else to do. The sound broke halfway through, turning into a sharp exhale that nearly became a sob.
Jungkook reached out instinctively, but stopped himself. His fingers hovered in the air between them, aching to touch her.
—I shouldn't have come —she said after a moment, her voice trembling—. I just... it's been hard lately.
He stayed quiet, listening. Trying not to fall apart when he knew he was the reason she had the feeling it was a hard time.
Y/n's gaze fell to the ground, her lashes trembling.
—It feels like I lost something, but I don't even know what. I wake up and it's like there's a hole where something used to be. Like... I'm mourning something and I don't even know what, and I don't know why I'm telling you —she shook her head, her tone slightly embarrassed.
The words hit him like a knife.
She didn't remember him -but she felt the loss anyway. It lived inside her bones, heavy and wordless. The same emptiness she'd once carried when her parents died, only now twisted into something crueler, a grief without a name. A pain with no clear solution.
Jungkook's heart ached so fiercely he had to look away.
—I'm sorry —he murmured, because it was all he could say.
She gave him a shaky nod, brushing at her cheeks.
—You shouldn't be. You just... happened to be here —her voice softened, almost grateful—. Thank you, though. For stopping me.
He wanted to tell her he'd do it a thousand times. That he'd stop her every night, every lifetime if he had to.
But instead, he nodded faintly.
—Just... don't come back here alone, okay?
Y/n glanced toward the railing, her lips pressing together. Then she nodded again.
—I won't.
They stood there for a while longer, both of them unsure what to do next. Finally, she stepped away, her shoes scraping softly on the wet pavement.
—Good night...?
Her voice lifted at the end, hesitant, unsure of his name. He froze, heart twisting, before forcing himself to answer.
—Jungkook.
—Good night, Jungkook.
She turned and walked into the night, her silhouette swallowed by the city lights. But before she could completely disappear, Jungkook found his voice.
—Wait —he called softly, the word barely carrying over the wind.
She stopped, half-turning to glance back at him. Her eyes were still glassy, lashes clumped from tears.
—Let me walk you home —he said, steadying his voice as best he could—. Just to make sure you get there safely.
Her mouth parted, a small, uncertain hesitation -he kind that came from instinct rather than logic. She didn't know him. And yet... something in her didn't want to say no.
—Alright —she whispered after a moment.
Jungkook exhaled, the tension in his shoulders loosening just enough for him to move again. He fell into step beside her, careful to keep a polite distance between them. Neither spoke at first. The city stretched quiet around them, wet asphalt shining under dim yellow streetlights. The night air was sharp and cool, filled with the scent of rain that hadn't yet fallen.
Their footsteps echoed faintly across the empty streets.
He kept stealing glances at her -the way she walked with her head down, her fingers brushing against her sleeves like she was trying to erase the chill from her skin. The same fingers that, just minutes ago, had been slipping from the edge of that bridge.
—You don't have to do this. It's getting late —she murmured after a while, not looking at him— and I live nearby.
—I know —he said quietly before realizing what he'd just admitted.
Her eyes flicked up to him in surprise and he coughed lightly, correcting himself.
—I mean... uh... if you said you lived near the university, then it's not far, right?
Her brow furrowed slightly, but she nodded.
—Yeah... it's just two blocks from here.
The silence returned, but this time it wasn't so sharp. The kind that hummed between them like something fragile and human.
They crossed a small intersection, the streetlamps flickering as if struggling to stay awake. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed, then faded.
Y/n let out a soft sigh.
—I'm sorry you had to see that.
Jungkook's gaze stayed fixed ahead.
—Don't be.
—I wasn't thinking —she went on, voice small, shaking a little—. It's just... I woke up and everything felt wrong. Like someone had ripped the world out from under me, but I couldn't remember why. I thought it would stop if I...
She cut herself off. Her breath trembled in the cold. Jungkook's fingers twitched at his side, aching to reach for her hand. He forced them to stay still.
—You're not broken —he said instead—. You're just... lost right now. You just need to find your path back.
Her eyes flicked to him, studying his profile in the low light. There was something in his tone -not pity, not softness, but a quiet understanding that made her chest tighten.
—Maybe —she said faintly—. But it feels like I've been lost for a long time.
They turned a corner, and she stopped in front of an old building. Her building. He recognized the chipped paint on the door, the plant that leaned half-dead against the wall beside it.
—This is my stop —she said.
Jungkook nodded slowly.
—Good.
For a second, neither moved. The silence pressed close again, heavy and uncertain. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, avoiding his eyes.
—Thanks for walking me —she said finally—. And for... —her voice faltered— everything else.
He forced a smile.
—Anytime.
She hesitated again, like she wanted to ask something but didn't know how. Instead, she just offered him a faint, tired smile -one that didn't quite reach her eyes- and slipped inside the building.
The door clicked shut behind her.
Jungkook stayed there for a moment, staring at the place where she'd stood. Her absence hit him like a physical ache, hollowing out his chest. He turned his gaze upward, to the single window that flickered with light a few floors above. Her room.
Through the curtain, he saw her silhouette move -small, slow, exhausted. She set her bag down, turned off the light.
And just like that, she was gone again.
The street had grown quiet by the time Y/n disappeared behind the door. Jungkook stood there for what felt like hours, staring at the spot where she'd been, the echo of her voice still tangled in the night air. The cold bit through his thin clothes, but he barely felt it.
He should've walked away. Should've respected the line she drew. That's what the old Jungkook -the one who knew her heart, her rhythms, her need for distance- would have done. But the thought of her, alone in that apartment, still trembling from the weight she couldn't name, gnawed at him like something feral.
He tried to leave. He really did.
He took three steps down the street, shoving his hands into his pockets, jaw set against the ache that kept tugging him back. But with every step, the image of her on that bridge replayed behind his eyes: her face pale under the streetlights, her fingers clinging to the rail, her voice breaking apart in the wind.
He stopped dead in his tracks.
No.
His pulse thudded in his ears. The Vatraels' warning echoed somewhere deep inside his skull -fifteen days- but it wasn't even that which made him turn around. It was her. The thought of her slipping back into that hollow silence the moment he left.
Before he could change his mind again, he strode back and slipped inside the building until he got to her floor, to her door and pressed the buzzer.
The sound was sharp, too loud in the stillness. He winced, rubbing the back of his neck, waiting. For a long moment, there was nothing. Then came the soft shuffle of feet on the other side, and the door cracked open just a little.
Y/n peered through, confusion flickering across her face when she saw him.
—Jungkook?
He blinked. She remembered his name. It hit him like a punch -stupid, obvious, but still enough to make his breath catch. He'd told her earlier, offhand, that they shared a class. She remembered because of that, not because she suddenly remembered what they lived.
—Yeah —he said softly—. Sorry. I just... I didn't mean to bother you again.
Her expression softened a little, concern pushing past her fatigue.
—Did something happen?
He hesitated, then ran a hand through his hair, playing up the awkwardness he didn't have to fake.
—Not exactly. It's just... —he gave a small, sheepish laugh— I argued with my roommate and I don't really have a place to stay right now.
Her brows knitted, a mix of confusion and sympathy etching across her face.
—Oh.
—I just... —he continued quickly— I just thought, since it's late, and I don't really know the area that well, maybe you could tell me where I could stay?
She hesitated, h\se fought with her own self as she kept thinking how dangerous it was what she was about to suggest. Y/n's lips parted like she wanted to tell him Google was a good way to find hostels -and she almost did. He could see it: the instinct to protect herself, the distrust that came with being alone, with not knowing who to let in.
But then, something shifted. The memory of the bridge flickered in her eyes, and her shoulders softened.
—You can stay here —she murmured, mostly to herself—. It's the least I can do.
Jungkook swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded once.
—Are you sure?
She opened the door wider.
—Come in.
The warmth hit him first -faint and human, the kind that clung to walls and blankets. The apartment was small, cozy in a way that still carried the faint smell of coffee and rain. Books piled unevenly on the shelves, a jacket thrown over a chair, a candle burned halfway down on the counter. It was hers. It was the same space he dared to call home after centuries tied to a room that meant nothing but a reminder of his past mistakes. He knew every corner of that space, every shadow, every scent -and yet, that night, it felt like stepping into a stranger's home.
Y/n brushed past him to close the door, locking it with a soft click.
—Sorry about the mess —she said, rubbing her arms.
Jungkook smiled faintly.
—It's perfect.
She turned to him, unsure what to do next, and gestured toward the couch.
—You can stay here. I'll get you some blankets.
He nodded, lowering himself slowly onto the edge of the couch, careful not to look too comfortable, too familiar. The fabric dipped under his weight, and the smell hit him: lavender detergent, faint coffee, her. He swallowed hard, forcing his hands to stay still in his lap.
Y/n disappeared behind the doors of her closet for a moment, and Jungkook let his gaze wander around the room. A photograph on the shelf caught his eye: her with a friend, laughing, sunlight in her hair. No trace of him. Of course not. The world had rewritten itself clean.
When she came back, she was holding a folded blanket and a pillow tucked under her arm.
—It's not much —she said quietly, setting them down beside him—. But it should do for tonight.
—Thank you —he said, his voice low but sincere—. Really. I'll be gone in the morning.
She shrugged lightly, trying to play it off.
—You helped me first. So, I guess we're even now.
He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes.
—Not even close.
She hesitated at that, something flickering behind her gaze: recognition, maybe, or just the echo of something she couldn't name. Her lips parted like she wanted to ask what he meant, but she closed them again, brushing it off with a soft sigh.
—I'll, um... be in my bed if you need anything —she said finally.
He nodded.
—Good night, Y/n.
The sound of her name in his mouth made her pause for a heartbeat.
—Good night, Jungkook.
Jungkook sat there for a long time, staring at the space she'd left behind after she had disappeared under the covers of her bed. The blanket she gave him lay across his knees, the warmth of her presence still clinging faintly to the air.
He leaned back against the couch, tilting his head toward the ceiling.
"Back to the beginning," he thought bitterly. "Only this time, she doesn't know she already loved me once".
His eyes drifted toward the shape of her bed, his chest aching with a mix of gratitude and grief.
He spread the blanket over himself, fingers tracing the fabric absently.
The couch creaked softly as he shifted, exhaling a shaky breath. And in that small, quiet apartment, with her just a few steps away, but farther than she had ever been, Jungkook closed his eyes and whispered to the dark:
—Fifteen days.
The hum of the city filled the silence, and somewhere beyond the walls, the first drops of rain began to fall.
Warnings: dom!San, sub!reader, explicit language, mention of drug and guns, violence, rough sex.
Summary: San, a notorious and feared mafia boss, has always lived in the shadows of power and violence. When an ambush leaves him wounded and on the run, he finds refuge in an empty event hall. Inside, Y/n, a rising star in the world of event planning, is nursing her own wounds -a career on the line after a confrontation with a powerful client. The last thing she expects is for her night to take a dark turn when San stumbles into her life, bloodied and dangerous.
Despite the fear and uncertainty, Y/n can't turn away. She helps him clean up, binding more than just his wounds in the process. What begins as an intense, chance encounter spirals into a dangerous obsession. San, used to being the hunter, becomes fixated on the one woman who dared to help him, even in his darkest moment. Meanwhile, Y/n, caught in the mystery of that powerful man, finds herself tracking his every move, unable to shake the dangerous allure of his world.
Neither knows that their fascination with each other is mutual. In a city teeming with danger, power, and deceit, their secret obsessions will pull them deeper into a deadly game -one where love, power, and obsession intertwine, and nothing is as it seems.
Chapter duration: 14 minutes
The room had changed since last night, but only in the smallest, cruelest ways. Someone had left food on the metal table -untouched. A pitcher of water with condensation dripping down its glass. A folded blanket on the back of her chair, like she was a guest instead of a captive.
San hadn't left.
He sat across from her, his elbows resting on his knees, head tilted slightly as if studying her could solve the riddle she had become. He didn't speak, not right away. That was his first mistake.
Because Y/n had already decided she wasn't going to.
Her gaze remained fixed on the far wall, unblinking, her jaw set in a rigid line. If she gave him nothing -no words, no reaction- then maybe she could still control something. Her silence was the only weapon left.
San's fingers tapped once against his knee, then stilled.
—You're not even going to look at me? —he asked softly.
No answer.
He leaned back, folding his arms. The faintest smile tugged at his lips, but it didn't reach his eyes.
—I've seen you like this before. Not at me, though. At others. When you wanted to cut them down without lifting a blade. You think silence punishes me?
Her throat worked, but she kept her lips pressed tight.
San's expression flickered, frustration slipping beneath the mask. He dragged a hand down his face and exhaled through his nose.
—Angel, don't do this.
Still nothing.
The quiet stretched, heavy enough to press down on both of them. The ticking of a far-off clock became a metronome to her stubbornness. She shifted once in her seat, but her eyes stayed fixed on that same spot on the wall.
San's jaw flexed.
—You think I don't notice? That every second you're not looking at me feels like you're carving pieces off my skin?
Her heart clenched, but she forced her body not to betray her.
He stood abruptly, the scrape of the chair legs echoing in the cavernous space. His boots paced across the concrete floor, back and forth, each pass tighter, shorter.
—You want to punish me? Fine. Stay quiet. Pretend you don't care. Pretend you don't want answers. But don't think for a second that I don't know what that silence really means.
He stopped behind her chair, his voice lowering until it ghosted over her ear.
—It means you're afraid.
Her fingers twitched against her lap.
—It means you don't know if you're angrier at me for leaving... or for coming back.
Her chest rose sharply, betraying her breath.
San's hand hovered just above her shoulder -not touching, not claiming, but close enough to radiate heat.
—You can hate me all you want, angel. You can sit here in silence until your throat aches from holding it all in. But you and I both know... —his voice thinned into a whisper— you don't want to leave this room. Not really.
She shut her eyes tight, refusing him the reaction, even as her pulse thundered in her ears.
The silence that followed was unbearable, the kind that demanded someone break it. But for the first time, San didn't.
He stayed there, a shadow at her back, letting her silence stretch sharp and painful between them.
The scent of garlic and soy lingered in the air long before the scrape of a chair pulled her attention to the table. San didn't announce himself, didn't tell her to eat -he just set down a steaming plate, then another. Rice, vegetables, a thin line of smoke curling off grilled meat.
Her stomach betrayed her with the smallest growl. She ignored it.
San sat across from her, chopsticks already in hand. His movements were precise, practiced, as though the act of eating was a performance for her benefit. Bite after bite, he chewed slowly, his eyes lifting to her in between mouthfuls.
—You'll make yourself sick, angel —he said finally, voice even, calm—. Starving doesn't prove anything.
She kept her gaze locked on the wall again. Blank concrete, colder than his voice.
He pushed one plate closer to her, the porcelain clinking softly against the metal table.
—Eat.
Nothing.
His jaw flexed, but his tone didn't change.
—You're not punishing me. You're punishing yourself.
Still nothing.
San set his chopsticks down with care, folding his hands together like he was holding himself back. His gaze burned into her profile.
—You think I don't know what this is? —he asked quietly— The silence. The staring through me. You want me to break. You want me to beg.
Her lips pressed tighter, nails digging into her palms beneath the table.
San's chair screeched against the floor as he stood. He circled the table slowly, his boots echoing in the hollow room, until he stopped directly beside her. He crouched down, leveling his eyes with hers.
She didn't turn her head.
—You won't even look at me —he murmured.
Her vision blurred at the edges, the weight of his stare pressing harder than his grip ever could.
His voice softened further, almost a whisper:
—Angel... I cooked for you.
The tenderness cut deeper than the accusation last night. It slipped under her ribs, wormed into the part of her that still remembered his hands steadying hers, his quiet domesticity in stolen moments.
But she refused to move.
He waited a beat. Two. Three.
Her silence stretched into defiance.
Finally, San stood again, the weight of his sigh heavy as steel.
He picked up the untouched plate and carried it back to the counter. He didn't throw it out, didn't smash it. He simply covered it with plastic wrap and slid it into the refrigerator, methodical.
His control was a mask, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed him.
When he spoke again, his voice was flat.
—You'll talk when you're ready.
He poured himself a glass of water, drank it slowly, the sound of the glass meeting the counter echoing too loudly in the silence.
She sat rigid in her chair, still staring at the wall.
And the air between them was thick -not with words, not with shouts- but with the absence of both.
The silence wasn't empty. It was loud.
Every breath, every swallow, every scrape of his chair when he finally walked away- it all thundered in her ears.
And she held onto her silence like it was the only shield she had left.
The next morning, she woke to the sound of furniture being dragged across the floor. Not near her, but somewhere down the corridor: heavy, deliberate, the thud of wood against concrete.
San didn't greet her when she stepped out of the bedroom. He didn't tell her what he was doing. He only passed by with a rolled-up rug slung over his shoulder, eyes flicking to hers for half a heartbeat before moving on. Silent. Intent.
Hours later, he called her name.
The door at the end of the hall stood open, the stale air inside replaced with something softer, warmer. He'd stripped the room bare, scrubbed the concrete until it no longer reeked of dust and oil. A low table sat in the center, with a single candle flickering. A simple wooden cross hung on the wall, its edges rough as though carved in haste but with care.
A Bible rested on the table. Her Bible. She recognized the frayed leather cover, the small stains on the pages -he'd taken it from her apartment without asking, of course, but it was hers.
—For you —San said simply, standing in the doorway with his arms crossed—. So you can pray.
She had followed her for long enough to know she needed a place that felt sacred to pray, a place where she'd be able to practice her belief without worrying about him being around, giving her the privacy to speak, the space to air her inner voice and respecting her choice of keeping it away from him.
She blinked at him, too startled to answer.
—You don't have to thank me —he added quickly, as if bracing for her silence—. Just... use it.
And then he walked away.
For hours, she avoided the room. It sat at the edge of her vision, a quiet temptation. When the sun sank low and shadows stretched long through the hall, she finally slipped inside.
She knelt by the table, fingers grazing the worn cover of the Bible, the familiar texture grounding her more than the walls ever could. For the first time since the black bag, since the endless silence, her lips parted.
Her voice came low, hoarse from disuse.
—Our Father, who art in Heaven...
The candlelight flickered against her closed eyes as she whispered each line. She asked for clarity. For strength. For deliverance -not just from him, but from herself.
And somewhere, beyond the door, she thought she heard the faintest shift of weight.
A shadow. A presence.
She paused, heart pounding, but the silence outside held. She told herself she was imagining it. She continued.
—Lead us not into temptation...
What she didn't see was San, his back pressed against the other side of the door. He wasn't guarding it. He wasn't pacing. He was listening. Every syllable wound through the wood, soft and fragile, and he closed his eyes as though her prayer was being spoken for him.
Her voice was steady now, warmer with each breath, alive with conviction. It was the first time in days he'd heard more than the scrape of her footsteps or the rustle of her clothes.
And he drank it in.
He didn't dare move, didn't dare breathe too loud.
It wasn't faith that brought him there. It wasn't reverence. It was hunger. The kind of hunger silence had sharpened into a blade.
When she whispered "Amen," he whispered it too under his breath, though not to God. To her.
And then he stayed there, forehead leaning against the door, until her voice faded again into the stillness of the room.
The prayer was meant for someone else, but San claimed it like it belonged to him.
The first night he left her alone in that room, she prayed only once. Quiet. Hesitant.
San hadn't expected much more. But when he leaned against the cold wall, ear tilted toward the wood, her voice bled through. Every syllable curled around him, fragile and unguarded, and he realized how badly he'd missed hearing her speak. Not at him. Not in defiance. Not in anger. Just... speaking.
That single prayer became a hook.
By the next evening, he found himself hovering again. Dinner was untouched, her plate cold in the kitchen, yet she knelt in the room, lips moving in whispered patterns he could almost make out. He timed his steps, slowed his breathing, pressed his palm flat to the wall to catch the faintest vibrations of her words.
—Forgive us our trespasses...
His mouth curved into something darkly amused. Trespasses. She meant him, maybe. Or herself. It didn't matter. The words slid into him anyway.
It became a ritual -hers for God, his for her.
Every night he lingered in the hallway, silent shadow against her door. He began to learn her rhythm. She prayed longer on the nights she was restless, shorter when fatigue dulled her. She asked for peace she never found, begged for freedom she wouldn't get. Sometimes she spoke in silence, lips moving without sound, and that drove him insane—because he wanted it all, every word, every drop of breath she offered.
Once, she paused mid-prayer. He almost pushed the door open, thinking she'd sensed him, but then she sighed and whispered:
—Are you listening?
San's heart stuttered. His hand pressed harder to the wall. For a wild, dangerous second, he thought she meant him. That she knew. That she was inviting him in.
"Yes," he thought. "I am".
But the pause stretched, and she continued softer:
—Lord, are you listening?
The tightness in his chest loosened into a smirk.
After a few days, it became a habit, he no longer pretended it was coincidence. He arranged his evenings around her prayers. He cooked when she was quiet, checked his calls when she slept, and when the hour came, he made sure he was there, waiting. Addicted. Hungry.
He would stand against the wood, breathing in rhythm with her voice, sometimes closing his eyes so the echo filled the hollow spaces in his chest. He convinced himself this was better than touching her, safer than holding her until she broke.
But his obsession sharpened edges too.
Once, when she skipped a night, he paced the hall like a caged animal. By the second hour, he felt the urge to push the door open, only to find out she had left ajar. She was lying on the rug, curled in silence, refusing to meet his eyes.
—Why should I pray? Maybe I don't want Him to hear me anymore.
San had almost said "Then let me". But he bit it back, retreating before the words betrayed him.
Still, the truth sat heavy in his chest: her prayers weren't for him, but he claimed them anyway. He turned her devotion into chains, because hearing her voice -even when it wasn't meant for him- was the closest thing he had to absolution.
And every time she whispered "Amen," San mouthed it too, like her voice was his salvation.
But that small chapel didn't change her push and pull where she kept her silent treatment and her refusal to eat. It began like a stubborn game.
San would cook. He'd plate the food with his own hands: rice steamed to perfection, soup rich and clear, fruit cut into neat slices the way he'd seen her do once. He'd leave the tray outside her door.
And she would ignore it.
The first day, he thought she was making a point. The second, he told himself she was just trying to prove her resolve, to test how much he would bend. But by the third, the untouched trays stacked in the kitchen like accusations, the skin around his knuckles split from clenching them too hard, he began to taste something bitter beneath his tongue.
By the fourth day, when he opened her door and found her collapsed against the floorboards, the bitterness bloomed into full-blown terror.
—Y/n —her name tore out of him, ragged.
He dropped to his knees so fast they slammed the ground, but he didn't feel it. He gathered her in his arms, shaking her lightly, then harder when she didn't wake. Her skin burned with fever, lips cracked, eyelids trembling like they couldn't decide whether to close forever.
—Don't you fucking dare —his voice cracked—. Don't do this. Not to me.
Her head slumped against his shoulder, too heavy, too limp. For the first time in years, San felt his own heartbeat like a threat in his throat, choking him.
By the time the doctor arrived, ushered in under Wooyoung's watch, San was pacing like a caged animal. He only stopped when the man touched her wrist, leaned down to press two fingers at her neck.
—Well? —San barked.
The doctor looked up, adjusting his glasses with maddening calm.
—She's dehydrated. She hasn't eaten properly in days. Her body simply couldn't sustain it any longer.
San's breath left him in a violent exhale. He dragged both hands through his hair, tugging at the roots until it stung.
—She'll recover —the doctor added carefully—. If she rests. If she takes in food and water. But any longer, and it could have been much worse.
Much worse. The words rattled through San like a blade dragged along bone.
When the doctor left, Wooyoung dismissed with a nod, San sat at her side on the couch, his hands restless. One hovered at her wrist, pressing faintly against her pulse as if needing constant reassurance. The other brushed over her cheek, sweeping back strands of damp hair. She didn't wake.
He should have felt anger. Should have screamed, slammed his fist through the wall, raged at her for putting herself in danger just to spite him. But what hollowed him out was not fury, it was fear.
Fear that he could lose her without warning, without a word. Fear that the very thing tying him to this world could vanish by her own hand.
He stayed like that for hours, the weight of her silence pressing down until his lungs ached. And then, like a man drowning, San stood. His body carried him on instinct alone, down the hall, into the room he had made for her.
The chapel.
It smelled of incense she had burned, of beeswax from the candles she lit. The air carried her voice still, faint traces of prayers he had overheard through the door.
It was wrong for him to be here. The cross on the wall didn't want him. The silence wasn't his. He had no right to stand in this room that belonged to her God.
And yet, he stepped inside.
The floor creaked softly under his weight as he lowered himself to his knees where she usually knelt. His palms dragged over the rug, trembling, unsure how to hold themselves. He tried folding them together. It felt foreign. But he stayed like that anyway.
He picked up the rosary she used, the one she left next to the rug -the same one he had bought her-, and twirled it on his fingers. His eyes stayed shut, his lips parted, but no words came. For a man who had always commanded, always taken, speech had never failed him. Until now.
The silence swallowed him whole, louder than any gunfire, more damning than any blood he had spilled.
When he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse, uneven.
—I don't know how to do this —his chest rose and fell too fast—. I don't... I've never believed. I've never asked. But... —he bit down on the word, jaw tightening until his teeth ached— But if you're there... if you're real... don't take her away from me.
The sentence cracked. He dragged in a shuddering breath, his fingers tightening so hard they dug into his own knuckles.
—Not like this. Not when I need her.
The last word escaped like confession, the kind he couldn't take back.
San stayed bowed, head bent, his forehead nearly pressed to the rug. He felt nothing -no warmth, no answer- but he forced the words anyway, clawing them out from a part of himself he never thought he'd show.
—I can't lose her. I won't survive it.
His throat locked. He swallowed hard, breath shaking.
—Please.
And in the chapel that wasn't his, under the silence of a God he didn't know, San prayed -not out of faith, but out of desperation.
Taglist: @a-tiny-thing , @brown88
Read Chapter 30 from the story Until You're Mine || Choi San by Lucythor_xoxx (Lucy A.) with 1 reads. san, choisanxre...
Warnings: Explicit language, mention of death and suicide, demonology, violence, rough sex
Summary: Y/n thought her life couldn't get worse after losing her parents in a tragic accident. Years after, she's aware of everyone moving forward, while she's in the same place, isolated and alone. She struggles to find meaning in a world that seems indifferent to her grief. Desperate for comfort, to feel the deep connection she had been missing, she starts the manifestation, expecting an inoffensive entity to walk with her that rough path. What she doesn't know is that she awoke the mysterious entity tied to an old necklace around her neck.
Jungkook, a mysterious and seductive figure, appears in her life, offering the company she craves. But as his presence grows stronger, so does the unsettling sense that there's more to him -and the necklace- than meets the eye, unfolding all the reasons that took him to that place.
Now, as the past bleeds into the present, Y/n must fight with her growing feelings for the demon who seems familiar yet dangerous. Jungkook is determined to reclaim his power, but in doing so, he may doom Y/n once again. Bound by fate, the two are locked in a dangerous mix of love, redemption, and the looming threat of destruction.
Will they break the curse that has haunted them both, or will history repeat itself with devastating consequences?
Chapter duration: 15 minutes
A sharp, ragged intake of air, like drowning lungs breaking the surface. Jungkook's chest heaved violently, dragging in a breath that burned all the way down, filling him with too much, too fast. His body convulsed, ribs expanding as if he hadn't breathed in centuries.
Then came the light.
Blinding. White, vast, merciless. It wasn't sunlight, it wasn't fire. It was something colder, emptier. It poured into his vision until his eyes watered, until the edges of the world blurred and bled. He blinked hard, once, twice, his lashes wet, his pupils straining against the brilliance.
And slowly, the space came into focus.
A room without walls -or maybe a hall, though it stretched too far, too high to be measured. The ceiling arched away into infinity, glowing faintly like the underside of a frozen lake. The floor beneath him gleamed pale, not stone, not earth, but something smooth and seamless, reflecting fragments of his shadow.
It was silent.
Too silent.
Jungkook pressed a trembling hand to the ground, pushing himself upright. Every nerve screamed in protest, his muscles heavy as if he hadn't moved in lifetimes. His throat was raw, his lips chapped, his body unsteady, but he forced himself to stand.
That's when he saw them.
The six vatraels.
Lined before him in a half-circle, black silhouettes cut against the endless white. They didn't move, didn't breathe. Their eyes, though... he felt them. Six pairs, sharp as blades, watching him with a stillness more suffocating than any chain.
Jungkook's stomach lurched. The last thing he remembered... Her, Y/n.
Her warmth pressed against his chest, her breath soft in sleep, the necklace -heavy in his palm-, his whispered goodbye. And then, silence. Falling. Darkness. The walls of the prison folded around him until there was nothing but the echo of her name burning through the void.
And now, this.
The air there didn't feel like air at all. It pressed against his skin, thick and metallic, like breathing smoke. His fingers twitched, his nails dragging against his palms just to feel something real.
He turned in a slow circle, his bare feet silent on the glowing surface. No doors. No shadows. No horizon. Only this vast white chamber, and them. Always them.
He swallowed hard, his voice hoarse, scraping from the inside of his chest.
—Where am I?
The words fell flat. No echo, no reply. Only the oppressive silence of the vatraels, standing like carved statues, eyes locked on him as though he were something dragged from the grave.
Jungkook's breath came too fast. He pressed a hand against his sternum, feeling the frantic pound of his heart: real, alive, too alive. And yet wrong. Wrong, because he remembered surrender. He remembered the end.
The necklace.
He had been inside it. That prison, red and endless, had swallowed him whole. It had closed like a coffin around his soul, sealing him away with nothing but memory and regret. He remembered clawing at the dark, screaming against the walls of silence until his voice broke, until even his own mind grew distant.
It wasn't supposed to open again.
It wasn't supposed to let him out.
His knees buckled, and he caught himself on shaking hands, breath rasping against the cold floor. The weight of the room pressed down, thick and unyielding, as if the vatraels' silence itself were chains binding him still.
And for the first time in years -or perhaps forever- Jungkook felt something colder than fear seep into his bones.
A single thought pulsed through him, unrelenting, bitter, terrifying in its clarity: He wasn't meant to come back.
And still, there he was.
Jungkook's palms pressed flat to the cold surface beneath him, every muscle in his body trembling as if still shaking off the weight of the void. He dragged in a ragged breath and forced himself upright again, refusing to stay on his knees under their eyes.
The six vatraels hadn't moved. Their forms loomed tall and unwavering, faces unreadable, their presence thick as smoke. Watching. Always watching.
Something inside him snapped.
His voice cracked the silence.
—What am I doing here?
It sounded too small at first, hoarse, unsteady. But the sound carried, falling flat against the endless walls of light and vanishing without echo.
No response.
The vatraels stood still, six statues cut from shadow.
Jungkook's jaw clenched. His fists curled tight.
—I asked you a question —his voice was sharper now, each word sharper than his own teeth—. Why am I here? What the hell do you want from me? I left! What else do you want from me?!
Still nothing.
The silence was suffocating. It crawled down his throat, pressing against his chest until his heart hammered against it like a trapped animal. They weren't even looking away. Just staring. Measuring. Judging.
Jungkook took a step forward, his voice rising.
—I did what you asked me to do: I chose, and I chose her life over mine! —his hands shook as he gestured, as though forcing his own memories into shape— So don't stand there and look at me like I don't know. I went back to that fucking punishment —his chest heaved—. But now I'm here. In this... place. Why?!
The air around him thickened, charged, like a storm winding itself up. He pushed on, his anger shaking loose the grief buried in his ribs.
—Don't you dare stand there in silence! —he snapped, his voice breaking into a shout— If you pulled me out, if you dragged me back, then answer me! Why am I here?
The demand cracked through the stillness like lightning. His chest burned from the force of it. His voice echoed this time -too loud, too raw to be swallowed.
And finally, one of the vatraels shifted.
Just a tilt of the head, a flicker of movement, but it was enough to drag Jungkook's breath short. The silence broke -not with words at first, but with the sound of six voices breathing in together. A single inhale, inhuman, seamless.
When they spoke, it wasn't one voice but six at once, layered over each other, deep and resonant, as if the air itself vibrated with their will.
—You will be tested.
The words struck him like a blade to the chest. His shoulders stiffened, his pulse stuttering.
—Tested? —he repeated, bitter— For what?
—To convince us —their voices rolled like thunder—. Convince all that you are worthy to remain in the world you covet.
Jungkook's hands curled into fists. His throat burned.
—You think I care about your permission? —he spat— That I need you to tell me where I belong? I don't give a damn about your judgment. The only thing I want, the only thing that matters, is her—his voice cracked, harsh and desperate—. And I'm not risking her life to feed some sick fantasy you weirdos have.
The six shapes did not waver. Their silence returned, denser now, pressing down on his defiance like a weight.
Jungkook staggered forward a step, chest heaving.
—You're not listening —he said, his voice rough but steady—. I don't need your tests. I don't need your world. I don't even need myself. If there's one place I belong, it's with her. And if you think I'm going to let any of you decide that for me —his teeth bared, a snarl trembling in his throat—, you're out of your goddamn minds.
For a moment, it was silent again.
Then the voices rose once more, colder this time, layered like ice over fire.
—Then prove it.
The air trembled, the ground humming under his bare feet. The light of the vast room pulsed like a heartbeat.
—You will face what binds you. You will face what breaks you. You will face what defines you. And only then, if you endure it, will you have earned to be by her side life after life.
Jungkook's breath caught, chest rising and falling too fast. His eyes flicked between the six, searching for mercy, for any sign of softness, but there was none. Only the same, endless judgment.
The weight of their words sank into him like stone. Not mercy. Not grace. A challenge.
A trial.
And for the first time since waking, Jungkook felt something strange stir in his chest: fear, yes, but beneath it, deeper, hotter, a spark that refused to go out.
If it was a fight they wanted, if it was proof they demanded -then he'd tear the world open until it bent to him.
The silence stretched after their decree, thick and unbearable. Jungkook's heart hammered, but his jaw stayed locked, defiant. He didn't flinch beneath their gaze.
Then the air shifted.
Another voice rose among them -not louder than the rest, but sharper, like the slice of glass against skin.
—You misunderstand, Jungkook.
His eyes flicked to the figure who had spoken, though they all looked the same -veiled faces, shifting in shadow.
—This will not be the world you knew. You will not return to her with the strength you carry now. It will be just you. No borrowed power, not a single drop of what you were.
Jungkook's throat tightened.
—What are you saying?
The voices merged again, weaving into a chorus that wrapped around him like a chain.
—You will be nothing. Flesh and blood. Mortal. You will wake in her world with no wealth, no shelter, no name to protect you. No experience, no study, no place. Only the bare skin of a man who must survive as all others do.
The words struck heavy, like stones hurled against his chest. Jungkook swallowed hard, though the defiance in his eyes didn't dim.
—And still —the chorus went on, slow and deliberate—, you will have to win her. Not as you did before. Not with the fire of what you were. You will stand as less than you have ever been. And still, you must prove love can live again.
A breath hissed through his teeth.
—You think stripping me bare will change that? —he shook his head, a humorless laugh cutting through his fear—. You could take everything from me. My body. My name. My blood. You could drag me into the dirt, and I'd crawl through it if it meant reaching her.
The light in the chamber pulsed, as though the room itself acknowledged the weight of his vow.
But the vatraels weren't finished.
—Be careful with promises —one said. His voice dropped lower, colder—. You have only fifteen days.
Jungkook froze.
The words echoed in his skull like bells tolling for the dead. His fists curled until his nails bit into his palms.
—Fifteen days? —his voice cracked—. What kind of game is this?
—This is no game —the six intoned, a low thunder rolling across the chamber—. It is the measure of what you claim. Fifteen days. Relive the love that once died. Prove it was not an accident. Prove it is more than fleeting desire. Only then will we decide.
—Relive...? —Jungkook repeated under his breath, his chest tightening.
The words coiled in his mind like smoke, heavy with a meaning he couldn't yet grasp. Relive the love that seemed to die. Why those words? Why that phrasing?
But they gave him nothing more. No answers, no kindness. Just their endless, suffocating silence.
He exhaled slowly, his voice low but steady.
—Fifteen days. No powers. No safety net. Just me —he lifted his chin, his gaze burning into the faceless figures—. Fine. I don't need anything else. If it's her, I'll find her. I'll love her again. And I'll make you choke on your doubts.
The chamber pulsed again, a shudder of light rolling over the marble-like floor.
—You accept, then?
—I accept.
His voice didn't waver.
The air thickened around him, humming like the strings of an unseen instrument being pulled taut. Something vast began to move, unseen, a tide preparing to drag him under.
—Then your trial begins.
The words rolled like a judgment already written. Jungkook barely had time to draw another breath before the ground beneath him gave way, the chamber splitting into brilliance and shadow. His body lurched, weightless, as though he were being swallowed whole by light. His last sight of the six vatraels was their stillness, their unwavering silence.
Jungkook's body hit hard ground.
The breath tore from his chest, and he gasped as if surfacing from the bottom of a lake. His eyes snapped open to a sky much too dim, much too ordinary: gray concrete walls rising around him, the sour stench of trash, a thin drizzle hanging in the air. An alley. Cramped, filthy, real.
He lay there for a moment, disoriented, the echo of the vatraels' light still seared into his eyelids. His hands pressed against damp asphalt, fingers trembling as he pushed himself upright. The clothes clinging to his body were the same he'd worn inside the necklace: black, neat, too clean for this world. Out of place.
—What the hell... —his voice cracked, hoarse from silence.
The city loomed just beyond the alley mouth, neon signs buzzing faintly, headlights sweeping past. His ears caught the murmur of late-night traffic, the clatter of shoes on pavement, the sigh of life carrying on without him.
He stumbled forward, one hand braced against the wall. His body felt heavy, weaker than he remembered. Mortal. They hadn't lied.
People glanced at him as he emerged from the alley, some curious, most indifferent. He caught a man's sleeve as he passed.
—What day is it? —Jungkook demanded, breath sharp.
The man yanked his arm back with a scowl.
—Get lost, junkie.
Jungkook's teeth clenched. He grabbed another, a woman this time, his grip desperate though not rough.
—Please. What day is it? What time?
She recoiled, eyes narrowing.
—It's Tuesday. Nine at night. Don't touch me.
Her heels clicked away before he could breathe out the knot of panic in his throat. Tuesday. His head spun.
He stumbled back a step, his mind racing. A week. He'd been gone a week. No more. His lungs burned, dragging in the humid city air, and he pressed his palm flat against his chest as if it could calm the furious pounding of his heart.
Y/n.
The name slammed into him with the weight of everything he had lost and clawed back. His head turned, eyes darting across the street as if she might appear out of thin air. But no. She wouldn't be there.
His fists clenched until his knuckles ached. It was night -class hours were ending. She'd be at the university. The library. He remembered how many times he'd huff and complain about her staying in the library, while he kept insisting how she could study at home. And it was always on Tuesdays. It was part of her routine, for no reason. It just was that way.
She got out of the library around thirty past nine, and then stopped by to buy some take away, which she used to eat by herself until he appeared.
He pictured her there, bent over her books, tired eyes softening every time she tucked her hair behind her ear.
The thought hit him like fire in his veins. He started moving. First a stagger, then a stride, then a run. His body protested -muscles unused to this frailty, lungs stuttering against the burn of effort- but he didn't care. He couldn't. His sneakers slapped hard against the pavement, cutting through side streets, crossing lights against traffic.
The campus loomed ahead, lights glowing through tall windows, shadows of students passing between stacks. Jungkook slowed only when the building swallowed him whole, the familiar scent of paper and dust rushing his senses.
And then, silence.
He stood at the edge of the library's main hall, chest heaving, hair damp against his forehead. His pulse rattled in his ears.
She was there. Somewhere between the rows of shelves, in the hum of fluorescent lamps, in the quiet corners where her world had always felt safest.
His jaw tightened, and he took a step forward, his heart splitting open at the thought of seeing her again.
The library was hushed, the kind of silence that buzzed in Jungkook's ears after the chaos of the city outside. His sneakers squeaked faintly against the polished floor, too loud, too out of place.
He stopped, scanning the room.
Students hunched over laptops, pages turning softly, pens scratching notes. None of them mattered. Not until he found her.
His chest rose and fell in quick bursts, panic fighting with hope. He moved down the first aisle, his hand brushing along the spines of books, gaze darting left and right. No sign of her. Another aisle. Another.
—Y/n —he breathed under his breath, though he knew she couldn't hear him.
His voice cracked like prayer, like maybe the sound of her name alone would pull her to him.
At the far end of the hall, a familiar curve of a shoulder caught his eye. He froze. She sat tucked into one of the corner tables, head bent over an open book, her hair falling forward to shield her face. A paper cup sat cooling beside her elbow, a pen twirling absently in her fingers as she read.
Jungkook's knees almost gave out. Relief washed over him first: warm, overwhelming, so sharp it stung his eyes. She was there. Alive. Safe. Breathing in the same air as him.
But then came the ache. The unbearable pull in his chest as if something deeper than his body remembered what it was like to hold her.
He started forward when he saw her getting up from the table. Slowly at first, then faster, weaving through the rows, unable to stop himself. The world narrowed until it was only her, until the faint echo of her pen tapping the paper was the loudest sound in the room.
He reached her.
His hand trembled as he stretched it out, closing around her arm. Warm. Solid. Real.
Her head jerked up, startled. Eyes widening as she turned to face him.
And in that instant, time shattered.
He saw her: the lines of her face he'd memorized, the softness in her lips he'd kissed a thousand times, the soul he'd sworn across lifetimes to protect.
But her eyes... Her eyes did not know him.
They widened, yes, but in confusion. In alarm. In the sharp, defensive reflex of someone confronted by a stranger. The breath punched out of him as if he'd taken a blade to the chest when she carefully moved her arm away.
And Jungkook realized in that devastating, hollow moment, she didn't remember. Not him. Not their nights. Not their promises. Not the love that had burned them both alive.
She was looking at him like he was no one at all.
His mouth opened, but no words came. The world seemed to stop moving, the silence closing in, heavy and merciless. The fortune cookie's words, the vatraels' warning, the fifteen days -they all crashed through his mind like breaking glass.
Fifteen days to relive the love that seemed to die.
Fifteen days to get her to remember.
But that night, all he could do was stare into the eyes of the woman he loved, and see her staring back at a stranger.
Warnings: dom!San, sub!reader, explicit language, mention of drug and guns, violence, rough sex.
Summary: San, a notorious and feared mafia boss, has always lived in the shadows of power and violence. When an ambush leaves him wounded and on the run, he finds refuge in an empty event hall. Inside, Y/n, a rising star in the world of event planning, is nursing her own wounds -a career on the line after a confrontation with a powerful client. The last thing she expects is for her night to take a dark turn when San stumbles into her life, bloodied and dangerous.
Despite the fear and uncertainty, Y/n can't turn away. She helps him clean up, binding more than just his wounds in the process. What begins as an intense, chance encounter spirals into a dangerous obsession. San, used to being the hunter, becomes fixated on the one woman who dared to help him, even in his darkest moment. Meanwhile, Y/n, caught in the mystery of that powerful man, finds herself tracking his every move, unable to shake the dangerous allure of his world.
Neither knows that their fascination with each other is mutual. In a city teeming with danger, power, and deceit, their secret obsessions will pull them deeper into a deadly game -one where love, power, and obsession intertwine, and nothing is as it seems.
Chapter duration: 12 minutes
The rain had thinned to a mist, clinging to her hair and lashes as she pulled her coat tighter. The black car didn't move. No engine hum. No headlights flashing on. Just there, like it had been waiting for her.
Y/n's heartbeat drummed against her ribs, but she set her jaw and forced herself forward. If there was one thing she had learned, it was that hesitation made her a prey.
Ignore it. Just walk. Don't give it power.
The wet pavement reflected the lamplight in broken streaks. Her boots clicked steadily, though her legs felt unsteady. She kept her gaze fixed on the building's glass doors ahead. Her key was already in her hand, gripped so tightly the metal edge dug into her palm.
The car stayed silent. She reached the steps. One more stride, and she'd be out of the open and back into the safety of her place.
And then, a door slammed. The sound ripped through the quiet, sharp and final. Y/n spun, her breath fogging the air. Shapes moved fast, too fast, for her to track. Heavy boots pounded against the pavement.
—No... —she started, but the word was strangled, cut short as something rough and suffocating dropped over her head.
Blackness. The world smothered in thick fabric.
Hands gripped her arms, pinning them. She thrashed, her voice muffled. A sharp warning hissed against her ear -low, commanding, unfamiliar.
—Quiet.
Her pulse roared louder than the rain. She dug her nails into the fabric of her coat, fighting, kicking back, but they shoved her forward. The smell of leather, cold air, asphalt. Her hip banged against metal, a car door wrenched open. She was shoved inside. The seat creaked under her weight, and the door slammed shut again, sealing her into the dark cocoon of the bag.
The engine roared to life. Tires splashed through water as the car lurched forward.
She forced herself to still, her chest rising hard against the bag. She tried to count, to memorize the turns, the stops, the acceleration -but panic blurred everything.
The bag clung to her skin, damp with her breath, pressing closer with every gasp.
Whoever they were, they hadn't said her name. Not once. That silence was worse than any threat.
Y/n clenched her fists, nails carving crescents into her palms. She wouldn't break here. Not now.
The car sped off, a low growl of the engine vibrating beneath her seat. The black fabric clung to her mouth and nose, damp with her breath, pulling tighter with every inhale. She tried to steady it, to count, to anchor herself to something solid. One. Two. Three. Four. But the rhythm broke each time the tires hit a pothole, each time the vehicle swerved too sharply. She slid against the leather seat, the seatbelt cutting into her side, and the helplessness of being restrained in shadow clawed at her nerves.
The air inside the car was thick, humming faintly with the heater, carrying the faint smell of gasoline and something sharper -cologne: expensive, unfamiliar.
Not San's.
Her throat closed around the realization. If it wasn't his scent, then it wasn't his car.
She gritted her teeth, forcing down the terror that rose with the thought. San wasn't here. San didn't even know.
The driver said nothing. Whoever else was inside said nothing either. Just the sound of rain sliding over the windshield, wipers cutting through the silence every few seconds.
How many there were? Two? Three? More?
Her palms were slick where her fists curled against her lap. She tested the restraints -they hadn't tied her, only shoved her in and bagged her. Maybe they didn't think they had to.
Maybe they thought she wouldn't fight.
The car slowed suddenly, making her stomach lurch. A turn. The brakes squealed slightly, then released. She tried to count the turns again, the dips and climbs of the road. But panic scrambled everything into fragments.
At one point she swore she smelled smoke -cigarette smoke- seeping faintly through the bag. And, unlike the cologne, she didn recognize the smell of those cigarettes, because it smelled the same way whenever San smoked near her.
She leaned forward, straining to catch the smallest sound. A voice? Breathing?
Nothing.
Her chest heaved, the fabric pressing into her lips. She tried to angle her head, to see if the weave of the bag gave away any light, any silhouette. But she was unable to differenciate anything at all.
The car finally began to slow. Not the sharp, reckless swerves of city traffic, but a steady crawl. The hum of the road beneath her shifted, smoother, like freshly paved asphalt. Then came the sound of gravel crackling under the tires.
Y/n stiffened. Rural, outskirts. She couldn't place it exactly, but she knew that sound -too far from the city lights, too quiet.
The car came to a stop. The engine idled for a moment, purring like something alive.
Doors opened. Two at once. The shuffle of boots hit gravel. The driver's side first. Then another.
Her fingers curled tighter in her lap. She heard the back door creak open, the cold night rushing in like a slap against her skin. A hand gripped her arm -not violently, but firm, no hesitation.
—Out.
The voice was low, roughened, and unrecognizable.
Her knees shook as she stepped down, boots crunching into gravel. The hand steadied her only enough to keep her from falling, then let go. Another hand replaced it, guiding her forward.
She couldn't see, couldn't even steal a glance through the fabric bag. All she had were sounds: the groan of the car's suspension easing, the creak of a gate opening somewhere nearby, the hollow echo of their footsteps shifting onto concrete.
They walked her through what felt like a corridor -her heels clicked differently here, sharp, metallic. Echoes bounced back at her, telling her the space was wide, empty, industrial.
Her heart was beating so loudly she swore they could hear it too. Another voice spoke then, clipped and commanding:
—This way.
She flinched. It wasn't San. Not Yunho. Not Mingi. Not Wooyoung.
Strangers. All of them.
The air grew colder. A faint draft ran along the edges of the bag, carrying the sterile tang of rust and oil. The scent of old machinery, abandoned but not forgotten. Her escorts halted and she heard a door unlatch, heavy metal screeching open.
And then, they pushed her forward.
She stumbled, caught herself. Her palms scraped against cool steel as she reached out blindly. The door clanged shut behind her with a finality that rattled through her bones.
Silence.
Just her breath, shallow and ragged beneath the fabric, filling her ears. The silence pressed against her skull like a living thing.
They'd left her here.
That was the only explanation Y/n could find as minutes -or was it hours?- bled into one another under the suffocating black bag. The air inside grew warm with her breath, damp against her lips. Her neck ached from holding it stiff.
But no one came.
No footsteps. No whispers. Not even the distant hum of machines. Just... nothing.
It was worse than any interrogation, worse than the threat of violence. Silence gave her too much time to think: about Mila, about Jongho, about San -always circling back to him, like a wound she couldn't stop touching.
Her fingers dug into the armrests of the chair. Her heartbeat pounded so hard she swore it echoed in the hollow of the room.
She tried once ,just once, to call out.
—Hello?
Her voice came out small, cracking against the walls, devoured instantly by silence. Her throat tightened. Panic crept in slowly, insidious. What if they'd abandoned her here to rot? What if this was the punishment: being erased, left to drown in her own fear?
Her leg bounced uncontrollably, while weat trickled down the back of her neck.
—How long are you planning to sit there?
Her blood iced over.
The voice: low, rich, edged with amusement and steel, familiar in a way that made her chest seize and her stomach lurch.
No. It couldn't be...
The scrape of a chair echoed, somewhere across the room. Heavy boots shifted on the floor. If she focused enough, she could remember the sound of those same steps a few weeks back.
She froze, every muscle locked, breath caught inside the damp prison of fabric. The voice came again, closer this time.
—Angel... you didn't really think I'd leave you out in the open, did you?
Her lips parted, but nothing came out.
The bag was ripped from her head in one swift motion. Light burned her eyes. She blinked furiously, tearing at the sudden sting, until her vision adjusted.
And there he was: San.
He was leaning against a steel pillar like he owned the world, dressed in black, hair mussed as though he hadn't slept in days. His eyes -those eyes- fixed on her, sharp enough to slice through every thought she tried to form.
Her chest rose and fell too quickly as her mind tried to make sense of what was going on ahead of her. Had she missed him long enough to already have visions and see him in other people?
Her lips finally moved.
—You...
He tilted his head, lips curving -not into a smile, not exactly. Something darker.
—Surprised?
She shot to her feet so fast the chair behind her scraped across the floor with a screech.
—You —she repeated with a trembling voice—. You left. You left me, San. You abandoned me and now just...
—Now I brought you back where you belong.
The words cut through her anger like glass. She stumbled over them, choking on disbelief.
—You... did this?
—Of course I did —he pushed off the pillar and closed the distance between them in two unhurried steps. His presence swallowed her whole, a storm pressing in from all sides—. What did you think, hm? That I'd let you walk away? That I'd leave you to crumble in that apartment while half the city sharpens their knives with your name on their lips?
—You had no right...
—No right? —his laugh was low, dangerous, a sound that wasn't joy at all— Angel, you're still alive because of me. You're still breathing because I didn't give you the choice to ruin yourself.
Her hand trembled as she shoved against his chest. He didn't move. Didn't budge an inch.
—You don't get to twist this into protection. You left. And now what, kidnap me? Keep me locked up so I can't fight back?
He caught her wrist before she could shove again.
—You wouldn't have come with me otherwise.
She stilled.
The words slammed into her harder than his grip ever could.
—You... what?
His thumb brushed along her pulse, a gesture that looked soft, but felt like shackles. His voice was quieter now, threaded with something raw.
—You would've refused. You'd have fought me until you bled for it. So I took the choice away.
Her eyes burned. Her lips parted, shaking, trying to summon anger, but what came out was something else -something dangerously close to a plea.
—San, you can't do this.
He leaned in, his forehead almost brushing hers, his breath warm and steady compared to the tremor in hers.
—I already did —he took one step closer—. Your freedom means nothing if it means losing you.
Her breath stopped for a moment after his words, to the point where she could hear the rhythm of her heartbeat if she focused enough. For a long moment, neither of them moved. She stared at him, heart pounding against her ribs like it wanted to break free. His gaze devoured her -hungry, haunted, unrelenting.
It wasn't just control. It wasn't just obsession. It was desperation, naked and terrifying.
When he finally spoke again, it was almost a whisper.
—I'm not losing you. Not to Hongjoong. Not to Mila's ghost. Not even to yourself.
Her voice cracked, broken between fury and heartbreak.
—You've already lost me.
His grip tightened on her wrist. His jaw flexed. For a second, she thought he might shatter right there, splinter into pieces under the weight of her words.
Instead, he pulled her closer, forcing her to look at him, his eyes burning like a vow.
—No. I refuse.
And the room, the silence, the entire world seemed to shrink until it was just them, trapped in a storm neither could escape.
San's grip on her wrist tightened, his face only inches from hers. The fire in his eyes shifted—less desperation, more fury, suspicion cracking through the surface.
—What the fuck were you thinking, Y/n?
Her breath hitched.
—When you did that to Mila.
The words landed like a slap. Her entire body recoiled.
—What?
His jaw was locked, every muscle in his body taut with restraint.
—You threatened her. I heard the recording. Your voice saying you'd make her regret it. And hours later, she's dead. You expect me not to put the pieces together?
Her head shook violently, eyes wide, throat tightening until the words scraped raw.
—So it wasn't you?
He blinked after her question, his hold on her faltered for the first time.
—I thought you killed her —she whispered, the admission ripping itself out of her, trembling with truth—. You left me, you cut me out, and then Mila ends up dead in a luxury suite? Who else could it have been?
Silence.
The kind that stripped the room bare, leaving nothing between them but the ugly reflection of what they really believed of each other. San let go of her wrist, stepping back, like her words had burned his skin. His expression hardened -not anger, not entirely. Something worse.
—So that's what you think of me. That I'd leave you, avoid you for weeks, and go slit her throat to tie up a loose end out of nowhere.
Her chest rose and fell too fast.
—And what did you want me to think?! You left me with nothing but questions, and suddenly someone who has kept threatening us shows up dead.
He turned away, dragging both hands down his face, pacing the length of the room once, twice. The fact that she wasn't the one who made a mistake out of spite made him feel uneasy. When he stopped, his shoulders dropped -not in defeat, but in grim certainty.
—This is exactly why I left.
Her heart lurched, the words cutting deeper than any accusation.
—What?
He faced her again, eyes sharp, but the fire in them had cooled into something colder.
—Because this... —he gestured between them, the space vibrating with mistrust and love twisted together— was starting to get dangerous for you. I rathered putting you on a pedestal than keeping you in my arms if it means you'd be safe. But I was wrong —he sighed, his shoulders slumping—. And again, I wish it had been you the one who did it. Because this makes things worse.
Her lips parted, desperate for a denial, but the words wouldn't come.
His voice softened, but it was no comfort.
—I thought keeping you away would protect you. But maybe it wasn't just protection. Maybe it was the only way to keep me from destroying you.
The room tilted, her knees weakening.
—San...
But he just shook his head slowly, as if her voice was the last tether he couldn't afford to grab hold of.
—And now, after Mila... after everything... I know I was right. You're in danger.
Her vision blurred, rage and heartbreak tearing through her chest like barbed wire. San's jaw clenched, but he didn't flinch.
—But, angel, I'm not leaving this time —he assured her—. You're keeping up with me, because I won't let a single person lie a hand on you. You'll be staying here until everything calms down.
And the finality in his tone was worse than the bag over her head, worse than the silence of that empty room. It was the sound of him choosing distance, even as his body stood inches from hers.
—Excuse me? —she scoffed— What if I don't want to? My opinion doesn't count?
—About something you know nothing about? Clearly not.
—San, I'm not kidding. The last thing I want is to spend a second with you in a room —she spitted, anger bubbling through her.
—Then seems like you'll have a problem —he shrugged.
Taglist: @a-tiny-thing , @brown88
Read Chapter 29 from the story Until You're Mine || Choi San by Lucythor_xoxx (Lucy A.) with 1 reads. readerinsert, f...
Warnings: Explicit language, mention of death and suicide, demonology, violence, rough sex
Summary: Y/n thought her life couldn't get worse after losing her parents in a tragic accident. Years after, she's aware of everyone moving forward, while she's in the same place, isolated and alone. She struggles to find meaning in a world that seems indifferent to her grief. Desperate for comfort, to feel the deep connection she had been missing, she starts the manifestation, expecting an inoffensive entity to walk with her that rough path. What she doesn't know is that she awoke the mysterious entity tied to an old necklace around her neck.
Jungkook, a mysterious and seductive figure, appears in her life, offering the company she craves. But as his presence grows stronger, so does the unsettling sense that there's more to him -and the necklace- than meets the eye, unfolding all the reasons that took him to that place.
Now, as the past bleeds into the present, Y/n must fight with her growing feelings for the demon who seems familiar yet dangerous. Jungkook is determined to reclaim his power, but in doing so, he may doom Y/n once again. Bound by fate, the two are locked in a dangerous mix of love, redemption, and the looming threat of destruction.
Will they break the curse that has haunted them both, or will history repeat itself with devastating consequences?
Chapter duration: 13 minutes
The street was quiet again.
Too quiet.
Her scream still rang in her ears, though the night had swallowed it whole. Not a window opened, not a light flicked on. The city kept breathing around her, indifferent, steady, merciless.
But Y/n couldn't breathe.
Her chest heaved in jagged bursts as her fingers clawed at the asphalt where he had stood seconds ago, skin tearing against the rough surface. Her nails bent, snapped, but she didn't notice. She didn't care. The pain in her hands was nothing compared to the one blooming, raw and violent, in her ribs.
—Jungkook —she choked, her forehead pressing into the cold ground—. No... please... no...
The tears came all at once, hot and unrelenting, soaking her cheeks and dripping onto the pavement. Her body convulsed around them, her shoulders trembling so hard it felt like she would split apart.
It wasn't real.
It couldn't be real.
She lifted her head, eyes darting to the place where he had been. As if he might be there again if she just looked hard enough. As if she might catch the last strand of his shadow before it fully dissolved into the night.
But the street was empty.
Completely empty.
Her throat tightened until it felt like she was choking. Her whole body shook as she pushed herself to her knees, then to her feet, stumbling forward as though momentum alone could drag him back.
She reached out into the nothing. Arms wide, trembling. Searching.
—Come back —she whispered, broken. Her voice cracked, hoarse—. Come back to me, please...
The wind shifted, carrying only silence.
Her hands dropped.
Her knees gave out again, this time harder. She collapsed onto the wet ground with a sound that wasn't quite a sob, wasn't quite a scream -something primal, guttural, torn from a place deeper than language.
People always talked about heartbreak like it was a metaphor.
But this... this was physical. It was real. She could feel it in her bones, in her lungs, in the way her skin felt too thin to contain her. A tearing from the inside, a breaking that no hand could stitch closed.
Her chest convulsed violently. She pressed her fists against it as if she could keep herself from splitting open. Her forehead touched the street again, her tears pooling beneath her, streaking down until the ground was slick with them.
Her breath hitched and stuttered, her body jerking with every sob that ripped through her.
How could he?
How could he leave her like that?
After everything. After binding himself to her, after dragging her into his world, after all the promises, all the love. He had looked at her like she was his last tether to life. Like she was everything.
And then he let go.
Of her.
Her nails curled against the pavement until they bled. She pounded her fists weakly into the ground, once, twice, again and again, until the ache traveled up her arms.
—Damn you —she gasped between sobs—. Damn you, Jungkook.
Her voice broke, cracking down the middle.
—Don't leave me here alone.
The whisper barely left her lips. It trembled into the air, fragile, desperate. She stayed there, folded in on herself, shaking like she was trying to keep the pieces of herself together with sheer will.
And the truth sank in with brutal finality:
He was gone.
Not dead -no, that would almost be easier. She could bury him, grieve him, keep him close to the ground, in her memories.
But this?
This was worse. He had vanished. Dissolved into smoke. Stolen away by something she couldn't touch, couldn't fight, couldn't drag him back from.
And she had been too slow.
Too slow to stop him.
Too slow to catch him.
Her body gave out again, and she lay curled on the asphalt, cheek pressed to the cold, wet street as though she could anchor herself there.
Above her, the city lights hummed. The world went on. Cars in the distance. A siren somewhere far away. Life, indifferent to hers.
She closed her eyes and let the sobs wreck her until her throat was raw and her body felt hollowed out. Until her tears ran dry and she could only shiver in the aftermath of them.
Still, his face wouldn't leave her mind.
His eyes, holding hers even as he faded. His mouth, soft with goodbye even when he didn't speak. The ghost of his hand lifted in farewell.
She would never forget it.
Never forgive it.
Because the thought of not being able to grief him properly was eating her alive. Although that thought wasn't strong while she kneeled on the floor, it wasn't when she cried out his name to try to get him back. No, the real grief came when she was forced to go on with life without him any longer, to forget the way she felt.
The first morning without him was the hardest.
Y/n woke to an empty bed, to sheets still warm on one side but already cooling, to a silence that clawed at her chest. The necklace was gone. The note was gone, she had burned it the night before, unable to bear the sight of his handwriting spelling out words that felt like a farewell carved into her ribs.
The apartment felt different without him. She moved through it like a stranger, bumping into furniture she should've known by heart, forgetting to switch off the kettle, leaving her textbooks scattered on the counter. She poured coffee, let it go cold. She tried to shower but sat on the floor of the tub instead, knees to chest, while the water scalded her back.
By the second day, she stopped trying to sleep. When she did close her eyes, she swore she could feel the weight of his body beside hers, the phantom press of his lips brushing her temple. Waking from that dream hurt more than staying awake.
At college, she wore her silence like armor. Her friends noticed instantly. She used to laugh at their jokes, roll her eyes at their dramatics, offer sly comments that cut through the monotony of classes. Now she just... sat. Pen motionless on paper. Eyes dull. The girl who never missed an assignment suddenly stopped turning them in.
And they recognized that look on her almost immediately.
—Are you okay? —one of them asked between lectures, worry knitting their brows.
Y/n had smiled -too fast, too shallow.
—Just tired.
They didn't believe her. Nobody did.
By the third day, whispers started circling. That she'd broken up with someone, that she'd had a fight at home, that she was sick.
Y/n ignored them all, head down, headphones in with no music playing. She needed the buffer, the illusion of distance.
Nights were the worst.
Nights stretched too long, too loud with absence. She would lie awake staring at the ceiling, replaying the moment in the street over and over. The way he'd looked: solid and real one second, fading into nothing the next, like smoke carried away by the wind. She could still hear her own voice, hoarse from screaming his name even though no sound had come out.
By the fourth day, she stopped crying. Not because the ache had dulled -if anything, it had burrowed deeper- but because she was empty. Exhaustion had leeched the tears from her. She walked through her days like a ghost, each step mechanical, each breath borrowed.
Even her professors noticed. One of them asked her to stay after class.
—Y/n —he said softly—, you don't seem well.
She had stared at him, lips parted as though she might tell the truth. That she had loved a boy who wasn't really a boy, that she had watched him disappear, that she was unraveling because he had taken every part of her with him. Instead, she just whispered:
—I'm fine —and gathered her books before he could ask again.
By the end of the week, her friends had stopped pushing. They sat beside her, filled the silence with their chatter, and offered snacks during breaks. She didn't join in, but she didn't leave either. It was the closest she could get to functioning.
Her room was littered with reminders. A shirt he'd left draped over the chair. A can of beer they never finished. Crumbs in the folds of the blanket from that rooftop date. She didn't touch any of it. Couldn't. The mess felt like proof he had been real. Proof she hadn't imagined him.
Sometimes, in the quiet between her waking and her dreams, she thought she heard him. A low chuckle, the whisper of her name, the faint thud of his footsteps in the hall. She always turned her head too quickly. And always found nothing.
But the hardest part was this: despite the heaviness crushing her chest, despite the way her life felt hollow without him, Y/n never stopped listening. Never stopped waiting. As if some stubborn part of her believed he'd come back. That smoke, once scattered, could gather again.
By the seventh day, Y/n had almost convinced herself she was going mad.
Her body went through the motions of college -lectures, cafeteria lines, group projects she didn't contribute to. She sat at the back of classrooms, letting her gaze blur into the whiteboard while her pen scribbled meaningless loops across the margin of her notebook. She stopped noticing people. Stopped noticing herself.
Until him.
She had just stepped out of the humanities building, books clutched to her chest, when something in the crowd made her freeze. The courtyard was buzzing with students, laughter echoing under the late afternoon sun, but Y/n's eyes locked on a figure striding past.
Tall. Dark coat. Hair that caught the light just so. But it wasn't his human elegance that made her breath catch. It was the air around him -thick, shimmering, pressing against her like heat from a flame. It was that exact same air she felt one of those times she had to run away with Jungkook. And, after giving a second look, she confirmed her suspicions:
A vatrael.
The same one she saw Jungkook with when he started remembering his past life.
Her stomach lurched. She remembered Jungkook's warning, the way his jaw had tensed when he told her they weren't to be trusted, the way they always hovered at the edge of danger. And yet, this one didn't seem hidden. He wanted to be seen.
He walked slowly, deliberately, as though he knew her eyes were on him. Students flowed around him, oblivious, like water skirting a stone.
Y/n's throat tightened. Her first instinct was to run. To pretend she hadn't noticed, that her pulse hadn't just spiked, that the world hadn't suddenly tilted. But then his head turned. Just slightly. Just enough. His eyes, impossibly sharp, met hers across the crowd.
It wasn't a mistake.
Her chest was constricted. It felt like he was baiting her, like he had appeared for this exact reason. A message left in flesh rather than ink.
Her legs moved before her brain caught up, weaving through the press of students. The books nearly slipped from her arms, her breath ragged. She didn't know what she'd say if she reached him, didn't even know if her voice would work, but she needed him. Needed something connected to Jungkook.
But as she pushed forward, her path narrowing to the courtyard gate where the vatrael had been, her stomach dropped. He was gone.
Vanished.
Just like Jungkook.
Y/n stood rooted in place, chest heaving, eyes darting desperately left and right. She could still feel it though, the burn in the air where he had passed, like smoke clinging to her lungs. Like he had brushed against her on purpose, close enough to draw her out, not close enough to reach.
And for the first time since Jungkook had disappeared, Y/n's numbness cracked. Not with grief, but with something sharper. Hope. Desperation.
If he had shown himself, then this wasn't the end.
The eighth day was the same as all the ones before it, except it wasn't.
Y/n dragged herself through classes, scribbling nonsense in the margins of her notes, letting her friends' chatter drift past her like background noise. She laughed at their jokes, answered when asked, but her voice was hollow. Every pause in conversation, every silence between words, was filled with him. Jungkook. His absence was louder than their presence.
And then she felt it.
The prickling heat along her spine, the unmistakable sense of being watched. It made her lift her head slowly, carefully.
There. At the far side of the lecture hall, among rows of disinterested students, a figure who didn't belong. The same sharp profile she had seen days ago, standing at Jungkook's side. One of the vatraels.
Her throat tightened. For a heartbeat, she thought she imagined him. But no, his gaze flicked toward her, deliberate, then away.
When the lecture ended and students began to file out, she tried to bury herself in the crowd, pushing toward the exit. But a cold hand brushed her wrist. Not grabbing, not restraining. Just a touch, like bait on a hook.
—This way —he murmured.
The voice coiled through her like smoke. She hesitated only a second before following.
He led her down deserted corridors, further from the noise of campus, until he pushed open the door to an empty classroom. Dusty sunlight slanted in through crooked blinds, and the air smelled faintly of chalk.
She lingered in the doorway.
—What do you want?
He leaned against a desk, his movements deliberate, his dark eyes glittering.
—The better question is what you want. You've been following me like a desperate little shadow.
Her hands curled into fists.
—I wasn't...
—Don't lie —his smirk cut her off—. You want him. You think I'm your shortcut.
Her chest was constricted once more.
—I don't know what you mean.
—Oh, you do —he stepped forward, circling her slowly. His presence filled the room, suffocating—. You want your demon back. The one who whispered all those sweet lies to you —he tilted his head, mockery sharp in his voice—. What did you think you were to him? Some grand love story? A happy ending? No. You were a distraction. A novelty. Something soft he could sink his teeth into before moving on.
—Shut up —her voice cracked.
He ignored her.
—Pathetic, really. Eight days, and look at you. Starving for a ghost, begging to be haunted again. Does it hurt that much? Knowing he left you?
Her vision blurred with angry tears.
—Stop it.
—Say it —he pressed, closing in—. Say you were nothing to him.
Something inside her snapped.
Her hand whipped up and cracked across his face, the sound sharp in the still air. His head turned with the force, jaw flexing. The smirk was gone when he looked back.
His voice was low, cold.
—You're done playing games.
Before she could react, his grip clamped around her arm -iron, unbreakable. Shadows surged, swallowing the room. The world tilted, bent, collapsed.
When it stilled, she stumbled forward into darkness and firelight.
The classroom was gone. She was standing in a vast cavernous space, a circle of pale flames flickering around her. The air was thick, heavy, like breathing through smoke.
They were waiting.
Five figures stood in the circle, motionless, their eyes gleaming in the half-light. The other vatraels. They radiated power, cruel and unyielding, their presence pressing against her lungs.
The one who brought her shoved her forward. His voice carried through the firelight.
—She wants him back.
Her heart thundered as she looked at them. Shadows shifted across their faces, but nothing human softened them.
—Please —she whispered, words tumbling out before she could think—. Please... I just... I need to see him. I'll do anything.
The circle remained silent, their gazes burning into her.
She dropped to her knees. Her voice shook, but she didn't stop.
—You don't understand. I can't... I can't breathe without him. I can't eat, I can't sleep. I wake up reaching for him and he's not there. Please. I'll give you whatever you want, I'll do whatever you say. Just let me have him back. He doesn't deserve that life.
The five creatures looked at one another with a serious expression. Another test, another challenge being linked to their heads in the air, an idea aired out without either of them having to say it out loud.
Her tears caught the firelight as they fell.
—Anything. I'll do anything.
For a long moment, the five only stared. Their silence was worse than cruelty.
And then, one of them moved. A tall figure stepped closer, his presence darker than the rest, his eyes glinting with cruel amusement.
—Anything, huh?
His voice was low, curling like smoke around her. The firelight lit up the sharp edge of his smile.
Warnings: dom!San, sub!reader, explicit language, mention of drug and guns, violence, rough sex.
Summary: San, a notorious and feared mafia boss, has always lived in the shadows of power and violence. When an ambush leaves him wounded and on the run, he finds refuge in an empty event hall. Inside, Y/n, a rising star in the world of event planning, is nursing her own wounds -a career on the line after a confrontation with a powerful client. The last thing she expects is for her night to take a dark turn when San stumbles into her life, bloodied and dangerous.
Despite the fear and uncertainty, Y/n can't turn away. She helps him clean up, binding more than just his wounds in the process. What begins as an intense, chance encounter spirals into a dangerous obsession. San, used to being the hunter, becomes fixated on the one woman who dared to help him, even in his darkest moment. Meanwhile, Y/n, caught in the mystery of that powerful man, finds herself tracking his every move, unable to shake the dangerous allure of his world.
Neither knows that their fascination with each other is mutual. In a city teeming with danger, power, and deceit, their secret obsessions will pull them deeper into a deadly game -one where love, power, and obsession intertwine, and nothing is as it seems.
Chapter duration: 12 minutes
The news broke like glass.
It didn't creep in as a whisper or a rumor, but crashed into Y/n's world in a collision of sirens, police scanners, and flashing headlines across every channel she flipped to.
"A woman, early thirties, found dead in a luxury suite downtown… Identity confirmed as Mila Olsen… suspected foul play, investigation ongoing..."
Her hand slipped on the remote, nearly dropping it to the floor. Her breath caught halfway in her throat, sharp and jagged, refusing to release.
The screen shifted to live footage -police lines wrapped around a hotel entrance, yellow tape fluttering in the cold night wind. A gurney rolled past, shrouded in white. Detectives huddled near the glass doors, their faces grim, their radios buzzing like a swarm of hornets.
And then her photo appeared.
Mila, with that smirk Y/n had seen only hours ago through a pane of glass. Lips painted red, eyes sharp, chin tilted in challenge. A woman alive, dangerous, breathing fire.
Now reduced to a headline.
Y/n's stomach knotted. Her knees weakened, and she dropped onto the couch like her bones had been stripped of their strength.
The apartment seemed to fold in on itself, shadows lengthening, the walls pressing closer. She reached for air, but her lungs refused to cooperate, every inhale cutting like broken glass.
Her phone buzzed. Then again. And again.
Calls from numbers she didn't recognize. Messages pouring in: fragments of panic, demands for answers, San's men trying to reach her.
But she couldn't move. She could only stare at the flickering images on the screen, her hand pressed against her sternum to keep her heart from breaking through her ribs.
The envelope still lay open on the table. The list of San's aliases, his false passports, the secret life Mila had thrown in her face. The papers rustled in the faint breeze from the half-open window, accusing her.
She braced both palms against the wood, nails biting in, forcing her body not to collapse.
This wasn't right. She had spoken to Mila not even a few hours back. Had heard her venom, the deliberate way she twisted words, the edge of triumph in her voice.
That wasn't the voice of a woman planning to die.
No. This wasn't an ending. This wasn't closure.
A sudden, violent knock shattered the silence. Y/n jumped, heart stuttering. Another knock followed, harder this time, shaking the doorframe.
She stumbled toward it, numb, pulling it open. Two officers filled the threshold. One held up a badge, the other a folded slip of paper.
—Y/n Y/s?
Her mouth went dry.
—Yes.
—You'll need to come with us. We have some questions regarding Mila Olsen.
Her blood ran cold.
—What? —she whispered.
The taller officer's voice was measured, careful.
—You were seen with her yesterday evening. And we have some recordings and details we'd like to discuss with you. So... if you could accompany us to the station.
—I didn't... —the words caught in her throat, useless, too thin against the weight of suspicion.
The neighbors' doors creaked open down the hall, curious eyes peeking through cracks. Their whispers spread like wildfire.
Murder suspect. Her name on their lips.
One of the officers stepped forward, reaching gently but firmly for her arm.
—Please, Miss Y/s.
Her chest heaved. She wanted to fight. To scream. To tell them they had it wrong. But her voice betrayed her, trembling, breaking.
The television still played behind her: Mila's face frozen in a grainy photo, the red headline flashing: HOMICIDE.
The last thing Y/n saw before the officers led her out was the faint smudge of San's cologne still clinging to the pillow on her couch. A ghost of him, silent, watching, as the walls of her life caved in.
The cold click of handcuffs followed.
Y/n's breath came ragged, her body moving without her will. The corridor blurred. The flashing red-blue of patrol cars below seeped through the stairwell windows.
And as the night swallowed her, one thought coiled like a noose in her chest:
Someone wanted this, someone had made sure the blame fell squarely on her.
She lost perception of time the second she was pushed inside the back of that car and forced to give out all of her belongings. Once she reached the police station, she could feel everyone's eyes on her. And it was to no surprise, she really had no business being there.
The interrogatory room smelled of cold steel and burnt coffee.
Y/n sat in the middle of it, a single chair at a single table, with the light buzzing overhead. The walls felt too close, too gray, too blank -as if the silence itself had teeth.
A detective slid into the chair across from her, his tie loosened, his eyes heavy with that predator's calm. Another officer leaned against the corner, arms folded, chewing at the inside of his cheek like he'd already decided she was guilty.
The red light on the tape recorder blinked alive.
—Name?
She swallowed, jaw tight.
—You already know it.
The detective didn't look up from the file in front of him.
—Answer the question for the record.
—Y/n.
The pen scratched against paper.
—Good. Now, Y/n, let's talk about Mila Olsen.
Her throat closed at the name. The words still echoed in her mind: Mila Olsen, dead. The headlines burned. The flash of the body bag, the way her photo had smeared across every screen in the city. She forced herself to sit straighter.
—What about her?
The detective flipped a page.
—You spoke to her yesterday. The cafeteria surveillance puts you outside the building where she was last publicly seen. You called her, you argued —his eyes finally lifted, pinning her like glass under a magnifying lens—. Would you like me to play the recording?
Y/n's skin went cold.
—Recording?
He pressed a button. A distorted voice filled the room: her voice.
"...if you dare to touch him again, you won't live to regret it".
Silence after. A silence so thick Y/n thought it might strangle her. The officer in the corner gave a low whistle.
—Sounds like a threat to me.
—That was... —Y/n leaned forward, voice breaking—. That wasn't... She provoked me. She was threatening a person, she was threatening his life, she...
—She's the one in a body bag —the detective cut in, smooth, almost cruel—. Not the person you're talking about. You're the one who told her she wouldn't live long enough to regret it.
Her nails dug into her palms. She wanted to scream that they didn't understand, that they were pulling words apart from the heat of a moment. But their eyes were hard, unwavering, convinced.
The detective tapped the file again.
—And then there's the matter of the whole stalking thing.
Y/n froze.
He leaned back, arms folding over his chest, voice sharpening.
—We found in your apartment several pictures, information about her: timings, habits... You followed her, didn't you? You watched her movements, her patterns. You found things about her that no one else did.
Her pulse spiked.
—That wasn't...
—You stalked her —he said flatly—. By your own admission, you tracked her. You collected information. You inserted yourself into her life until she disappeared from it. And now, she's gone.
—You don't understand —Y/n shot back, words cracking under the weight of her breath—. You don't understand, Mila wasn't... she wasn't safe for him. She wasn't who she said she was. She was linked to dangerous people, and...
—What, exactly? —the detective pressed— Another threat to the man you're obsessed with? We checked the records from Mr. Choi, the man on your... investigation board. He left the city some time ago… Did he find out what you did and chose to put distance between you before you could hurt him?
Her chair scraped as she shoved herself back, panic clawing at her throat.
—Of course not! —her scream was almost desperate.
The mere idea of San putting distance between them because she could lose control at any moment was driving her nuts.
—I didn't hurt Mila either. I didn't touch her! She called me first, she threatened San. This wasn't the whole conversation!
The officer in the corner finally spoke, voice low and almost amused.
—Funny thing about obsession. You don't need fingerprints when you've already left a trail of motive.
Y/n's vision blurred with heat, her lungs screaming for air. She wanted San, needed him, but he was gone, unreachable, oceans away. And here, in this room, they were dismantling her piece by piece, using what linked them as some sort of proof against her.
The detective leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper only she could hear.
—Convince me, then. Tell me why I shouldn't believe you killed Mia Olsen.
The recorder blinked red, her silence stretched. And in that silence, the walls pressed closer, as if waiting for her to break.
Y/n's lips parted. The words trembled at the edge of her tongue, hot and reckless, her chest rising and falling like the walls might collapse on her if she didn't spill. But the door burst open.
—Don't say another word.
The voice was cool, crisp, and carried the kind of authority that snapped the room into silence. A man strode in, late forties, sharp suit cut to precision, glasses glinting under the fluorescent light. He carried no briefcase, just presence.
—Who the hell... —the detective began, pushing up from his chair.
—Her lawyer —the man interrupted smoothly, flashing a card with a flick of his wrist. His tone carried irritation, like this entire setup had wasted his time—, which means this interrogation is over until I've spoken with my client in private.
Y/n blinked, confusion flooding her system as quickly as relief. She didn't hire anyone, she hadn't even been given the chance.
The detective scowled.
—We were in the middle of...
—Of coercing a confession without evidence? —the lawyer cut in, tone surgical— I've heard the tape. All you've got is a heated conversation and a body you can't explain. Where's the weapon? Where's the timeline? Where's a single shred of proof beyond her association with Choi San?
The officer in the corner straightened, jaw tightening.
The lawyer didn't stop. He circled the table, voice rising with calculated precision.
—You're attempting to hold my client based on circumstantial connections and innuendo. She argued with Mila Olsen. So did half the people in this city who ever crossed her path. You want to pin this on Y/n because she's convenient, because you think her link to Mila and to San makes her an easy scapegoat.
The detective's nostrils flared.
—She threatened her.
The lawyer adjusted his glasses.
—Words in the heat of an argument do not constitute murder. Unless, of course, you'd like to start combing through every recorded threat in this city and see how many of them end up in cuffs —his voice sharpened like glass.
The room went still.
The detective's silence was as good as an admission. Y/n sat frozen, heart pounding, mind reeling. Who was this man? Who sent him? She could barely catch up with the shift in air, the way she was no longer prey under the beam of that red light, but something shielded, protected, untouchable.
The lawyer finally turned to her, voice lowering to something almost gentle.
—Don't answer another question without me present. Do you understand?
Her throat bobbed. She nodded.
The detective closed the file with a violent snap, frustration leaking through the cracks of his control.
—Fine. But she's not leaving. Not yet.
The lawyer's mouth curved, but it wasn't a smile.
—We'll see about that.
The tape recorder clicked off. The red light died.
And Y/n, for the first time since the news broke, let herself breathe, though she couldn't shake the question tearing through her chest.
Who wanted her to be protected that badly? And why now?
The hours bled together. A blur of waiting rooms, signatures, muttered arguments beyond closed doors. Y/n sat hunched on a stiff plastic chair, wrists aching where the cuffs had been, the cold taste of the station still lodged in her mouth.
Then the lawyer appeared again. Same sharp suit, same unreadable expression. Only this time, the tone was final.
—You're free to go.
The words rang hollow at first, like they belonged to someone else. But the desk sergeant slid her things across the counter -a phone, a wallet, the envelope that felt heavier than ever. And the next thing she knew, the night air slapped against her skin, thick with rain and streetlights.
The lawyer opened the passenger door of a sleek black sedan.
—Get in.
She obeyed without thinking, sinking into the leather seat. The city passed in smeared streaks beyond the window, muted by exhaustion. The silence in the car pressed against her ears until he finally broke it.
—You're lucky —he said, eyes never leaving the road—. Most people don't walk out of something like that.
Her jaw tightened.
—Luck had nothing to do with it. You knew exactly what to say to get them off me.
A flicker of a smile ghosted his mouth.
—That's my job. But in this case... It was more than just my job.
Her gaze snapped to him.
—What's that supposed to mean?
He didn't answer right away, fingers tapping lightly against the steering wheel as if weighing how much to give her. Finally, he exhaled.
—Let's just say there are people who don't want to see you broken. People who will go to any length to make sure you stay standing.
Her pulse stumbled.
—Who?
The lawyer's smirk was slight, secretive.
—Names aren't my business. I only get the call, and I make things disappear. But someone... —he glanced at her, eyes catching hers in the dim wash of the dashboard lights— someone very determined made sure I was here the second you needed me.
Her chest ached at the implication. It couldn't be San. Could it? Not from Prague or Seoul, not after everything. And yet the thought pressed against her ribs like a bruise.
The lawyer's voice softened, almost pitying.
—You don't have to know who. You just need to understand that you're not as alone as you think. Even if it feels that way.
Y/n turned her face back to the window, hiding the crack in her expression as neon lights blurred into rivers of color.
But her fists curled tight in her lap, knuckles white.
Because if San was still pulling strings for her from across oceans, then the distance between them wasn't protection at all. It was a leash.
And someone, somewhere, was tugging it.
The ride slowed as they turned onto her street. The familiar outline of her building rose through the haze of drizzle, windows glowing weakly against the dark. Relief curled low in her chest -home, at last.
The lawyer eased the car to the curb.
—Here we are —his voice was steady, but there was something in it now, something heavier than courtesy.
Y/n reached for the door handle, but his hand lifted, stalling her for just a moment.
—Be careful —he said quietly, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror—. The storm around you hasn't passed. It's only shifted shape.
She swallowed, forcing a nod, and slipped out of the car. The rain kissed her skin, cool and biting.
But as the door clicked shut behind her, the lawyer's voice cut through the night again.
—Y/n.
She turned back. His eyes weren't on her anymore. They were angled past her shoulder, toward the street ahead.
Her gaze followed, and froze.
Parked directly in front of her building, half-shrouded in shadow, was a black car. Sleek. Familiar. Too familiar.
Her pulse thundered, the lawyer's earlier words echoing like a curse: Someone will go to any length to protect you.
The city seemed to hold its breath, the world narrowing to the gleam of that car under the streetlight.
Taglist: @a-tiny-thing , @brown88
Read Chapter 28 from the story Until You're Mine || Choi San by Lucythor_xoxx (Lucy A.) with 5 reads. choisan, ateez...
